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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.

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
Burning
Ember
Objects
Embers
Fall
Successive
Comes
Surrounded
Night
Abandoned
Something
Falls
Ruins
Slowly
Funereal

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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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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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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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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 have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness. Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity, your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages, and a genital fire, transformed by delight, slips through the narrow channels of blood to precipitate a nocturnal carnation, to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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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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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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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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Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
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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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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
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