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Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.

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
Poetry
Came
Arrived
River
Search
Winter
Rivers
Creativity

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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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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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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.
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You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence, while the sea destroys its perpetual statues, collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness: because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics, galloping water, incessant sand, we make the only permanent tenderness.
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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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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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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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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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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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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
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If each day falls inside each night, there exists a well where clarity is imprisoned. We need to sit on the rim of the well of darkness and fish for fallen light with patience.
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What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?
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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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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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And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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Tomorrow we will only give them a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf which will fall on the earth like if it had been made by our lips like a kiss which falls from our invincible heights to show the fire and the tenderness of a true love.
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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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