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Love is the mystery of water and a star.

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
Star
Mystery
Stars
Water
Love

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Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
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Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
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Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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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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Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
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Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
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From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
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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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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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Under your skin the moon is alive.
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I love you between shadow and soul. I love you as the plant that hasn't bloomed yet, and carries hidden within itself the light of flowers. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Because of you, the dense fragrance that rises from the earth lives in my body, rioting with hunger for the eternity of our victorious kisses.
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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight
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