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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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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
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But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.
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Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world on the blue shore of silence or where the storm has passed rampaging like a train. There the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris ,celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labour of soitude in the sand.
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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In the distance someone is singing.
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The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.
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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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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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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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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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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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Hands make the world each day.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.
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I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
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How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
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