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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.

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
Everything
Hidden
Always
Intelligent
Fool
Takes
Show
Keep
Shows
Seems

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What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?
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Hands make the world each day.
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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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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 built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
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Love is a clash of lightnings
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You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood that I faught against mockery that I did fill the high tide of my soul with truth. I repaid vileness with doves.
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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Under your skin the moon is alive.
Pablo Neruda
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
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I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
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Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
Pablo Neruda