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sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.

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
Wet
Dawn
Soul
Sometimes
Even

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In the distance someone is singing.
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As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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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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Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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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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Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
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