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

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How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
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Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
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In the distance someone is singing.
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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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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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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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In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
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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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Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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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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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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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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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
Pablo Neruda