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I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound Feel through the dark For the scream.

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
Thirst
Scream
Tough
Fire
Dark
Sound
Feel
Feels
Syllables

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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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Oh love, rose made wet by mermaids and foams, fire that dances and climbs up the invisible stairs and awakens the blood in the tunnel of sleeplessness.
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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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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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Tomorrow we will only give them a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf which will fall on the earth like if it had been made by our lips like a kiss which falls from our invincible heights to show the fire and the tenderness of a true love.
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I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
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I do not love you-except because I love you I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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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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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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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 believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
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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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Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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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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