Pablo Neruda

Ode To The Cat

The animals were imperfect, long-tailed, unfortunate in their heads. Little by little they put themselves together, making themselves a landscape, acquiring spots, grace, flight. The cat, only the cat appeared complete and proud: he was born completely finished, walking alone and knowing what he wanted. Man wants to be fish or fowl, the snake would like to have wings the dog is a disoriented lion, the engineer would like to be a poet, the fly studies to be a swift, the poet tries to imitate the fly, but the cat only wants to be a cat and any cat is a cat from his whiskers to his tail, from his hopeful vision of a rat to the real thing, from the night to his golden eyes. There is no unity like him, the moon and the flower do not have such context: he is just one thing like the sun or the topaz, and the elastic line of his contours is firm and subtle like the line of a ship's prow. His yellow eyes have just one groove to coin the gold of night time. Oh little emperor without a sphere of influence conqueror without a country, smallest living-room tiger, nuptial sultan of the sky, of the erotic roof-tiles, the wind of love in the storm you claim when you pass and place four delicate feet on the ground, smelling, distrusting all that is terrestrial, because everything is too unclean for the immaculate foot of the cat. Oh independent wild beast of the house arrogant vestige of the night, lazy, gymnastic and alien, very deep cat, secret policeman of bedrooms, insignia of a disappeared velvet, surely there is no enigma in your manner, perhaps you are not a mystery, everyone knows of you and you belong to the least mysterious inhabitant, perhaps everyone believes it, everyone believes himself the owner, proprietor, uncle of a cat, companion, colleague, disciple or friend of his cat. Not me. I do not subscribe. I do not know the cat. I know it all, life and its archipelago, the sea and the incalculable city, botany, the gyneceum and its frenzies, the plus and the minus of mathematics, the volcanic frauds of the world, the unreal shell of the crocodile, the unknown kindness of the fireman, the blue atavism of the priest, but I cannot decipher a cat. My reason slips on his indifference, his eyes have golden numbers.