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I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.

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
Way
Men
Emerge
Passed
Believed
Destiny

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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.
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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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If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live
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Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.
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What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?
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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.
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
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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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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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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.
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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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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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O happy childhood! blessed youth! But once we know thy potent power But once we live all careless free No cross to mar our love-lit bower.
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I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Pablo Neruda