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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 . . .

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
Buzz
Deeds
Sounds
Sing
Midday
Train
Wasps
Sound
Waterfall
House
Waterfalls
Like
Dew

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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
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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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I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence, while the sea destroys its perpetual statues, collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness: because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics, galloping water, incessant sand, we make the only permanent tenderness.
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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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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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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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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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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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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?
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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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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Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.
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