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He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.

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
Read
Doe
Music
Find
Slowly
Travel
Listen
Grace
Dies

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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?
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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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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.
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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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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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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 am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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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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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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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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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 no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?
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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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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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Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
Pablo Neruda