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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.

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
Grieving
Bites
Seed
Ruins
Seeds
Furrow
Sorrow
Budding
Among
Weeping
Earth
Bite

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Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.
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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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If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
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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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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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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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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.
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Hands make the world each day.
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The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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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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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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