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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
Like
Butterfly
Month
Atmosphere
Summer
Green
Trembled
Months
Summertime
Silence
Wet
Light
June
More quotes by Pablo Neruda
Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
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Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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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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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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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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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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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.
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Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
Pablo Neruda
Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
Pablo Neruda
