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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

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
Sorrow
Love
Establishes
Watered
Weeping
Islands
Crosses
Roots

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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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Laughter is the language of the soul.
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I love you only because it's you the one I love I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
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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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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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Poetry is an act of peace.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
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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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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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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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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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