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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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Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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Love! Love until the night collapses!
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If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live
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I love you only because it's you the one I love I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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