The Road by Amado Hernandez I On this day I look back, for I have traveled far—     a half-century, shouldering the cross to Calvary without even one Simon Cyrene. Only a summer ago I was an innocent child, Miracles teemed in my sight and my mind,     then the sun pivoted, December came with its sharp, cold bite— the world is not always in the April season. On a ladder to the promised land, I followed     the rainbow,     till I knew that all the fantasies of the heart are rainbows: if looked at from afar, the sky, if touched, ashes. Once a Prometheus, I brought fire to the wounded in the darkness;     I was punished by the vindictive gods who cried out, “The light of Olympus is not for creatures of clay!” I found at times, as Florante did, that wickedness often rules,     and good is often downed; and then I tried to give virtue its due: I turned into Don Quixote tilting at windmills. How rare the man who doesn’t act like the shrimp, flowing along with the tide, getting what it needs;     the wise serpent imitates the color of grass and wood; the bird in the cage still is a bird that sings. So many tangled paths in the world, more destruction than one had dreamed of,     everywhere lurks a demon— at the starting place, sand leads to the sea; a lake stretches out to the jungle. II All roads are both good and evil, all prayers are heard by God;     to step on earth is to fulfill your destiny, your longed-for goal, to tread on wind is to lose your way. In the flowery beauty of my chosen road, I learned how to withstand temptation;     I also realized that intelligence, not convention, is the key to the door of life, whether sad or glorious. And now, in my last journey, when the black frontier is only a few steps away,     on my grave, you will read my history: “He did not follow the old trodden ways.”