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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.

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
Live
Apart
Like
Bread
Blow
Clean
Wind
Crumble
Problems
Fresh
Problem
Table
Soul
Tables

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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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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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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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Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
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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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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
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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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In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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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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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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