Quote

Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

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
World
Roots
Splendor
Regret
Automobile
Train
Regrets
Rain
Dress
Standing
Trees
Thieving
Tree
Dresses
Sadder
Tell
Naked
Conceal
Anything
Rose
Hears

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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
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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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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.
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Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest.
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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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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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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Hands make the world each day.
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Laughter is the language of the soul.
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Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
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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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Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects.
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Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning.
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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
Pablo Neruda