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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?
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
Triangles
Tunnel
Tunnels
Vague
Clarity
Dark
Two
Life
More quotes by Pablo Neruda
It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
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Is 4 the same 4 for everybody? Are all sevens equal? When the convict ponders the light is it the same light that shines on you?
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I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound Feel through the dark For the scream.
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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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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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Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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Poetry is an act of peace.
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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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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Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
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I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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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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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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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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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 got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
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