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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight

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
Cutting
Full
Water
Moonlight
Made
Shines
Like
August
Wet
Shining
Road

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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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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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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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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
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Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
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Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning.
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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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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
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sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
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I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
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If each day falls inside each night, there exists a well where clarity is imprisoned. We need to sit on the rim of the well of darkness and fish for fallen light with patience.
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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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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
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I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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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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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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