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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater

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
Loosened
Love
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
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Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood that I faught against mockery that I did fill the high tide of my soul with truth. I repaid vileness with doves.
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I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
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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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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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I move in the university of the waves.
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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
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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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The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.
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