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Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

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
Though
Suffering
Lasts
Last
Saddest
Pain
Verses
Write
Tonight
Makes
Suffer
Writing
Lines

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We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
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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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If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
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Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.
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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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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
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How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
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sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects.
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I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.
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I ask permission to be like everybody else,like the rest of the world and what's more, like anybody else:I beg you, with all my heart,if we are talking about me, since we are talking about me,please resist blasting the trumpet during my visitand resign yourselves to my quiet absence.
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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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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.
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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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