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I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

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
Book
Belong
Snow
Winter
Spacious
Hand
Meadow
Open
Meadows
Waiting
Waits
Hands
Circle
Earth
Circles

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Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest.
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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.
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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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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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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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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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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.
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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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And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
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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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In the distance someone is singing.
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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Laughter is the language of the soul.
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Oh love, rose made wet by mermaids and foams, fire that dances and climbs up the invisible stairs and awakens the blood in the tunnel of sleeplessness.
Pablo Neruda