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

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I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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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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I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.
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But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.
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Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.
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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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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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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
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I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.
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I move in the university of the waves.
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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.
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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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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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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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Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.
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Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
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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.
Pablo Neruda