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We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Stones
Naming
Touch
Shores
Ocean
Metals
Destiny
Goodbye
Wind
Discovering
Shore
Knowing
Mortals
Things
Burning
Inert
Love

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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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I ask permission to be like everybody else,like the rest of the world and what's more, like anybody else:I beg you, with all my heart,if we are talking about me, since we are talking about me,please resist blasting the trumpet during my visitand resign yourselves to my quiet absence.
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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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Poetry is an act of peace.
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
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The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.
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O happy childhood! blessed youth! But once we know thy potent power But once we live all careless free No cross to mar our love-lit bower.
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You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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Love is a clash of lightnings
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If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
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I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
Pablo Neruda