Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature
Pablo Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature
On either side of the trail I could observe in the wild desolation something which betrayed human activity. There were piled up branches which had lasted out many winters, offerings made by hundreds who had journeyed there, crude burial mounds in memory of the fallen, so that the passer should think of those who had not been able to struggle on but had remained there under the snow forever. My comrades, too, hacked off with their machetes branches which brushed our heads and bent down over us from the colossal trees, from oaks whose last leaves were scattering before the winter storms. And I too left a tribute at every mound, a visiting card of wood, a branch from the forest to deck one or other of the graves of these unknown travelers.
Returned me, oh sun, to my wild destiny, rain of the ancient wood, bringing me back to the aroma of swords that fall from the sky, the solitary peace of pasture and rock, the damp at the river-margins, the smell of the larch tree, the wind alive like a heart beating in the crowded restlessness of the towering araucaria. Earth, give me back your pure gifts, the towers of silence which rose from the solemnity of their roots. I want to go back to being what I have not been, and learn to go back from such deeps that amongst all natural things I could live or not live; it does not matter to be one stone more, the dark stone, the pure stone which the river bears away.
Suffer the always expected more. Let him who never expected anyone?
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny.
If I died and I have not noticed, whom I ask now?
In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
It's time, my love, to avert this dark pink, close stars, bury the ashes on the earth and in the insurrection of light, awakening with which awoke or go into sleep reaching the other shore of the sea no other bank.
Love. Because of you, in gardens of blossoming Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring. I have forgotten your face, I no longer Remember your hands; how did your lips Feel on mine? Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks, the white statues that have neither voice nor sight. I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes. Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will make to me an irreparable harm. Your caresses enfold me, like climbing Vines on melancholy walls. I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to Glimpse you in every window. Because of you, the heady perfumes of Summer pain me; because of you, I again Seek out the signs that precipitate desires: Shooting stars, falling objects.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.
Sadness, scarab with seven crippled feet, spider-web egg, scramble-brained rat, bitch's skeleton: No entry here. Don't come in. Go away. Go back south with your umbrella, go back north with your serpent's teeth. A poet lives here. No sadness may cross this threshold. Through these windows comes the breath of the world, fresh red roses, flags embroidered with the victories of the people. No. No entry. Flap your bat's wings, I will trample the feathers that fall from your mantle, I will sweep the bits and pieces of your carcass to the four corners of the wind, I will wring your neck, I will stitch your eyelids shut, I will sew your shroud, sadness, and bury your rodent bones beneath the springtime of an apple tree
Take away the bread, if you like, take my air, but do not take away your smile.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks, running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life.
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour: loving is a clash of lightning-bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.
No crying, no that something is not science, wake up at night and do not know what to do, to be scared of their own memories. Forbidden to not laugh the problems, do not fight for what you want, give up everything because of their fear that payout on your dreams. Forbidden to leave their friends, do not try to understand so 've all been through together, and call them only when it's necessary. Forbidden to not be his to others, to pretend in front of people you do not care, playing the clown to would have remembered, and forget all that really matters to you. Forbidden to not do anything for himself, to be scared of life and of life, and thus undertakes not to live every day like it's your last breath. Forbidden to you without missing a joy to have forgotten someone's laughter and fathers, all just because his time is no longer your coverage, it is forbidden to forget his past and his substitute is present. Elton is no attempt to understand others think that their life is more valuable than yours, do not know that everyone has their time and fame. Prohibited not create your own story, do not have time for those you need, do not understand that life is what you give, and also taken. Prohibited not seek happiness, not to live life with a 'positive attitude, i do not consider that we can always be better; forbidden to forget that without you, this world would not be the same.
One pillar holding up consolations and don?t bother telling me anything and so? The pale metalloid heals you? I have a terrible fear of being an animal. And what if after so many words, the anger that breaks a man down into boys.
She did not speak for speech was unknown to her.
Take bread away from me, if you wish, take, my air away, but do not take from me your laughter. Do not take away the rose, the lance flower that you pluck, the water that suddenly bursts forth in joy, the sudden wave of silver born in you. My struggle is harsh and I come back with eyes tired at times from having seen the unchanging earth, but when your laughter enters it rises to the sky seeking me and it opens for me all the doors of life. My love, in the darkest hour your laughter opens, and if suddenly you see my blood staining the stones of the street, laugh, because your laughter will be for my hands like a fresh sword. Next to the sea in the autumn, your laughter must raise its foamy cascade, and in the spring, love, I want your laughter like the flower I was waiting for, the blue flower, the rose of my echoing country. Laugh at the night, at the day, at the moon, laugh at the twisted streets of the island, laugh at this clumsy fool who loves you, but when I open my eyes and close them, when my steps go, when my steps return, deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter.
The street heaves and winds, burns and bumps, but the glass behind the locksmith, the old curator of timepieces, stands motionless with a single protruding eye, one amazing eye which peers into the mystery, the secret hearts of clocks, and looks deeply in until the elusive butterfly in its measure of time is trapped in his forehead and watch the wings of the beat.
If suddenly you do not exist, if suddenly you no longer live, I shall live on. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall live on. For where a man has no voice, there, my voice. Where blacks are beaten, I cannot be dead. When my brothers go to prison I shall go with them. When victory, not my victory, but the great victory comes, even though I am mute I must speak; I shall see it come even though I am blind. No, forgive me. If you no longer live, if you, beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain on 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 stay alive, because above all things you wanted me indomitable, and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man but all mankind.
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.