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

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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
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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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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?
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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?
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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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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I love you between shadow and soul. I love you as the plant that hasn't bloomed yet, and carries hidden within itself the light of flowers. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Because of you, the dense fragrance that rises from the earth lives in my body, rioting with hunger for the eternity of our victorious kisses.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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Hands make the world each day.
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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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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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Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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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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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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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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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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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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