Over the last couple of years of the pandemic, I've heard so many people lament that they've lost a sense of "joy" or that they fear they've lost their ability to be "creative and spontaneous". And then I've spoken with people who are struggling with long Covid or ill health or the challenges of ageing. Again they say similar things. This poem speaks to these current challenges and loss.
"In my childhood is born a childhood buring like alcohol I would sit down in the paths of the night I would listen to the discourse of the stars And that of the tree. Now indifference snows in the evening of my soul." (Huidobro, cited in Bachelard, 1960, p. 104)
If you want the original source, it comes from a poem called Altaible, translated by Vincent Verhesen, p. 56.
