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We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.

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
Kissing
Came
Isles
Night
Isle
Love
Kisses
Like
Fish
Fishes
Fortunate
Lays

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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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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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And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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Love! Love until the night collapses!
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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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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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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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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
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Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness. Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity, your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages, and a genital fire, transformed by delight, slips through the narrow channels of blood to precipitate a nocturnal carnation, to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.
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Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects.
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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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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?
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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