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Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

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
Rainbow
Horizon
Ends
Doe
Soul
Iris
Alma
Irises

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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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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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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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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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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 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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When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
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I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
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I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.
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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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We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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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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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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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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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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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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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight
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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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