Quote

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

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
Night
Every
Slept
Wake
Sleep
Called

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Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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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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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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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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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound Feel through the dark For the scream.
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Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
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O happy childhood! blessed youth! But once we know thy potent power But once we live all careless free No cross to mar our love-lit bower.
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I do not love you-except because I love you I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.
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He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.
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I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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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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In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.
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my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
Pablo Neruda