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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

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
Wait
Tears
Small
Waiting
Spilled
Lakes

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What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?
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I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
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And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.
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I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
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If each day falls inside each night, there exists a well where clarity is imprisoned. We need to sit on the rim of the well of darkness and fish for fallen light with patience.
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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.
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Love is a clash of lightnings
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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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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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
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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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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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Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?
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I move in the university of the waves.
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