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I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

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
Hungry
Sniffing
Around
Sunbeams
Body
Erotic
Heart
Twilight
Like
Hunting
Pace
Hot
Flaring
Lovely
Sunbeam

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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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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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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.
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Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
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A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
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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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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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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
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We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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Love is a clash of lightnings
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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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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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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Poetry is an act of peace.
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The bare earth, plantless, waterless, is an immense puzzle. In the forests or beside rivers everything speaks to humans. The desert does not speak. I could not comprehend its tongue its silence...
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
Pablo Neruda