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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
Crosses
Roots
Sorrow
Love
Establishes
Watered
Weeping
Islands

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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.
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I move in the university of the waves.
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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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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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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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Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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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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The Ardent Hymn that Unites Peoples.
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
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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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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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my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
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I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
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From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
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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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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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