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Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

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
Away
Road
Everything
Follow
Without
Along
Open
Eyes
Dew
Waiting
Anguish
Eye
Leads
Death
Winter

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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.
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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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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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In the distance someone is singing.
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Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.
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Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
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There's a country spread out in the sky, a credulous carpet of rainbows and crepuscular plants: I move toward it just a bit haggardly, trampling a gravedigger's rubble still moist from the spade to dream in a bedlam of vegetables.
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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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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 hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
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Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.
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I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
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But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.
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