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Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

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
Pain
Owns
Hands
Conformity
Come
Sold
Belong
Till
Private
Pride
Mortgaged
Blood
Indecision

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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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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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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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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 stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
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Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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I ask permission to be like everybody else,like the rest of the world and what's more, like anybody else:I beg you, with all my heart,if we are talking about me, since we are talking about me,please resist blasting the trumpet during my visitand resign yourselves to my quiet absence.
Pablo Neruda