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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
Discovering
Wind
Shore
Knowing
Mortals
Things
Burning
Inert
Love
Stones
Naming
Touch
Shores
Ocean
Metals
Goodbye
Destiny

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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
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Poetry is an act of peace.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?
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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
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I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
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We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
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Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.
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