No slow death for me

A few days ago, Lía posted this Pablo Neruda poem on her blog, and being a chilenophile and a lover of poetry (his in particular), as well as a lover of life, I just had to share it with you all. Below the Spanish is my own clumsy attempt at an English translation:

NOTE: It seems that this poem might not actually have been written by Neruda, but rather a Brazilian poet named Martha Madeiros. Either way, it's good!!

Muere lentamente quien se transforma en esclavo del
hábito, repitiendo todos los días los mismos trayectos, quien
no cambia de marca, no arriesga vestir un color nuevo y no
le habla a quien no conoce.

Muere lentamente quien evita una pasión, quien prefiere el
negro sobre blanco y los puntos sobres las "ies" a un
remolino de emociones,
justamente las que rescatan el brillo de los ojos, sonrisas de
los bostezos, corazones a los tropiezos y sentimientos.

Muere lentamente quien no voltea la mesa cuando está
infeliz en el trabajo, quien no arriesga lo cierto por lo
incierto para ir detrás de un sueño, quien no se permite por
lo menos una vez en la vida, huir de los consejos sensatos.

Muere lentamente quien no viaja, quien no lee, quien no oye
música, quien no encuentra gracia en sí mismo.

Muere lentamente quien destruye su amor propio, quien no
se deja ayudar.

Muere lentamente quien pasa los días quejándose de su
mala suerte o de la lluvia incesante.

Muere lentamente quien abandona un proyecto antes de
iniciarlo, no preguntando de un asunto que desconoce o no
respondiendo cuando le indagan sobre algo que sabe.

Evitemos la muerte en suaves cuotas, recordando siempre
que estar vivo exige un esfuerzo mucho mayor que el
simple hecho de respirar.

Solamente la ardiente paciencia hará que conquistemos una
espléndida felicidad.

-Pablo Neruda

***

English version:

He dies a slow death who becomes a slave to habit, repeating everyday
the same paths, who doesn't change the mark he leaves, won't risk wearing
a new color, nor talk to people he doesn't know.

He dies a slow death who avoids passion, who prefers
black on white and dotted i's over
a whirlwind of emotions,
especially those that bring a shine to the eyes, rescue smiles
from yawns, hearts clumsy with feelings.

He dies a slow death who doesn't upend the table when he is
unhappy at work, who won't risk a sure thing
for the uncertainty behind a dream, who won't allow himself
at least once in his life, to flee from sensible advice.

He dies a slow death who doesn't travel, nor read, nor hear
music, who doesn't laugh at himself.

He dies a slow death who destroys his love for himself, who won't
let himself be helped.

He dies a slow death who spends his days complaining of his
bad luck or of the neverending rain.

He dies a slow death who quits a project before
starting it, not asking about what he doesn't know, or not
answering when asked about something he does know.

Let us avoid death by gentle insallments, remembering always
that being alive demands an effort much greater
than the simple fact of breathing.

Only firey patience will allow us to conquer
a splendid happiness.