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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

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
Green
Trembled
Months
Summertime
Silence
Wet
Light
June
Like
Butterfly
Month
Atmosphere
Summer

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I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
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Hands make the world each day.
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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 . . .
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Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my 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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The Ardent Hymn that Unites Peoples.
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We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.
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Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
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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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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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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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Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
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I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us.
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