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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.

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
Need
Lazy
Many
Disappear
Real
Touch
Needs
Hero
Summon
Really
Call
Mustn
Never
Comes
Bell
Love
Able
Bells
Self
Conformity

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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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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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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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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 have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.
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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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Love! Love until the night collapses!
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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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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
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Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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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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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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