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This letter is to Neftali, my son to be...
I've dreamed of you on various occasions,
held you in my arms, and watched you grow.
Your mother is still a mystery, in my dreams,
she has no face, and her scent is of rosaries;
like the kind at cemeteries, freshly picked. At
times I wonder if you're only a figment of my
imagination, and the longing to be a father
has created you in my dreams. Yet, I see you
like night and day, feel your flesh when I've
held you close. I can feel your heartbeat next
to mine. We will meet soon, but this letter I
won't read to you until you're old enough to
understand, I met you before your birth. In my
dreams, you've become a man, in which, your
appearance resembles mine; I know you're my
son too be...Neftali Ricardo Valencia! son of a
poet, with poetry running through your veins,
and grammar through your bones. Your the
miracle that I couldn't be, the hope that others
lost in me, and the patience that lacks in me.
Maybe you will be born in a Metropolitan city,
like the City of Angels, or Sin City...maybe your
birthplace will be somewhere in the cordilleras
of El Salvador, Central America...where your
grandparents are from. A single father, I will
probably be, since your mother is a ghost of a
memory I once knew...somewhere in this world.
One day you will ask me, why did I name you
Neftali; I will simply reply, "Neruda my son, Neruda."
the meaning you will know, and smile. I will die
before you marry Ana, a poetess herself; however,
I will die in peace, because my legacy shall continue
through the words of your poems, my son, Neftali.

I love you, can't wait to meet you,

Your Father, Sergio Valencia