Pablo Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature

Author Quotes

Just there, added one of them, my father fell and was swept away by the current. That didn't happen to you.

Magnetic art of both love books and walk out. And if no kissing or regions and if they have man hands full, if they have women in every drop, hunger, desire, anger, roads, do not serve to shield or hood : are no eyes and cannot open them, will the dead mouth of the precept. loved genital bowers and between blood and love dug my verses, in hard ground I established a rose disputed between fire and dew. 's why I could walk singing.

No, my dog used to watch me giving me the attention I need, yet only the attention necessary to let a vain person know that he being a dog, with those eyes, more pure than mine, was wasting time, but he watched with a look that reserved for me every bit of sweetness.

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

Shyness is an alien heart condition, a category, a dimension that leads to loneliness.

Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

The tears I cry not wait in small lakes? Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes? Or will invisible rivers and streams to sadness? Or they are unseen rivers run toward that sadness?

If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, I shall already have forgotten.

In you the earth? Little rose, roselet, at times, tiny and naked, it seems as though you would fit in one of my hands, as though I?ll clasp you like this and carry you to my mouth, but suddenly my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips: you have grown, your shoulders rise like two hills, your breasts and over my breast, my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin new-moon line of your waist: in love you loosened yourself like sea water: I can scarcely measure the sky?s most spacious eyes and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.

Later on you will find buried near the coconut tree the knife which I hid there for fear you would kill me, and now suddenly I would be glad to smell its kitchen steel used to the weight of your hand, the shine of your foot: under the dampness of the ground, among the deaf roots, in all the languages of the men only the poor will know your name, and the dense earth does not understand your name made of impenetrable divine substances.

Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence, without you moving, slicing the noon like a blue flower, without you walking later through the fog and the cobbles, without the light you carry in your hand, golden, which maybe others will not see, which maybe no one knew was growing like the red beginnings of a rose. In short, without your presence: without your coming suddenly, incitingly, to know my life, gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind: since then I am because you are, since then you are, I am, we are, and through love I will be, you will be, we will be.

Nobody can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or Mar¡a, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and Paraguays; I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it has no name.

Only with a burning patience can we conquer the splendid City which will give light, justice and dignity to all mankind. In this way the song will not have been sung in vain.

So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

That time was like never and always: where we expect nothing and find everything waiting.

The tears that do not cry wait in small lakes, or be invisible rivers that flow into the sadness?

If you ask me where I have been I must say "It so happens." I must speak of the ground darkened by stones, of the river that enduring is destroyed: I know only the things that the birds lose, the sea left behind, or my sister weeping. Why so many regions, why does a day join a day? Why does a black night gather in the mouth? Why dead people?

Is four the same four for everybody? Are all sevens equal? When the convict ponders the light is it the same light that shines on you?

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes. There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames, its arms turning like a drowning man's. I send out red signals across your absent eyes that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse. You keep only darkness, my distant female, from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges. Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes. The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you. The night gallops on its shadowy mare shedding blue tassels over the land.

Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood; that I fought against mockery.

Nostalgia is loving a past that has not passed yet. It refuses the gift that hurts us. It does not see the future that invites us.

Our love is a harsh cord that binds us wounding us and if we want to leave our wound, to separate, it makes a new knot for us and condemns us to drain our blood and burn together.

So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

The Truth is in the prologue. Death to the romantic fool, the expert in solitary confinement.

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Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
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Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature