Fridays are for Neruda

I've been thinking lately about one of my all-time favorite poems, "No Hay Olvido":

If you should ask me where I've been
I must reply: "It happens."
I must speak of the soil obscured by the stones
Of the river destroyed while still existing.
I only know things birds lose, the ocean left behind, or my weeping sister.

Why are there so many places?
Why does the day follow the night?
Why does the dark night accumulate in the mouth?
Why do the dead exist?

If you should ask me from where I come
I must talk of broken things
Of utensils far too bitter
Of great beasts often destroyed
And of my distressed heart.