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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
Slept
Wake
Sleep
Called
Night
Every

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Laughter is the language of the soul.
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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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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.
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You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence, while the sea destroys its perpetual statues, collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness: because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics, galloping water, incessant sand, we make the only permanent tenderness.
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I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
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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?
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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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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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Love is a clash of lightnings
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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
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I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us.
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Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.
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