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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
Summer
Green
Trembled
Months
Summertime
Silence
Wet
Light
June
Like
Butterfly
Month
Atmosphere
More quotes by Pablo Neruda
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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And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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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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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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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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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
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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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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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Is 4 the same 4 for everybody? Are all sevens equal? When the convict ponders the light is it the same light that shines on you?
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I love you between shadow and soul. I love you as the plant that hasn't bloomed yet, and carries hidden within itself the light of flowers. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Because of you, the dense fragrance that rises from the earth lives in my body, rioting with hunger for the eternity of our victorious kisses.
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Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.
Pablo Neruda