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Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood that I faught against mockery that I did fill the high tide of my soul with truth. I repaid vileness with doves.

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
High
Tide
Didn
Crowns
Someone
Tides
Vileness
Truth
Fill
Repaid
Soul
Draw
Doves
Draws
Weave
Blood
Mockery
Maybe
Dove

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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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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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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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In the distance someone is singing.
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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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Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world on the blue shore of silence or where the storm has passed rampaging like a train. There the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris ,celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labour of soitude in the sand.
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How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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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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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
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so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
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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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Love is a clash of lightnings
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