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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.

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
Distance
Blue
Stars
Night
Shiver
Shattered

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Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.
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I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
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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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Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?
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Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.
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We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
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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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Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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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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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 love you between shadow and soul. I love you as the plant that hasn't bloomed yet, and carries hidden within itself the light of flowers. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Because of you, the dense fragrance that rises from the earth lives in my body, rioting with hunger for the eternity of our victorious kisses.
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On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
Pablo Neruda
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
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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.
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I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
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Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?
Pablo Neruda