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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

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
Housed
Jars
Shattered
Oblivion
Tenderness
Infinite
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.
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I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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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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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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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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In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.
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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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Laughter is the language of the soul.
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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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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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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 stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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