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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
Irises
Rainbow
Horizon
Ends
Doe
Soul
Iris
Alma

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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 much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
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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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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.
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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.
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I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
Pablo Neruda
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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.
Pablo Neruda
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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.
Pablo Neruda
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Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
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I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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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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Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?
Pablo Neruda