Great Throughts Treasury

"It is time, love, to break off that somber rose, shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth; and, in the rising of the light, wake with those who awoke or go on in the dream, reaching the other shore of the sea which has no other shore."

"It is today exactly one hundred years since an unhappy and brilliant poet, the most awesome of all despairing souls, wrote down this prophecy: "In the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid Cities.""

"It seems that your eyes had flown away and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth. As all things are filled with my soul you emerge from the things, filled with my soul. Butterfly dream, you look like my soul and you look like the word melancholy."

"It spreads in the crisis, in other genesis, in the cataclysm, the body of the woman I love, obsidian, agate, sapphire, granite whipped by the wind of the salt of Antofagasta."

"It was my destiny to love and say goodbye."

"It happens that I am tired of being a man."

"It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables."

"It is not so much light that falls over the world extended by your body its suffocating snow, as brightness, pouring itself out of you, as if you were burning inside. Under your skin the moon is alive."

"It is forbidden to forget that without you, this world would not be the same."

"It was the other and nobody, until your beauty and your poverty filled autumn gifts."

"It's hard to tell if we close our eyes or if night opens in us other starred eyes, if it burrows into the wall of our dream till some other door opens. But the dream is only the flitting costume of one moment, is spent in one beat of the darkness, and falls at our feet, cast off as the day stirs and sails away with us."

"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."

"Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit."

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

"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."

"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."

"Let me start by saying, on the days and years of my childhood, my only memorable character was the rain."

"Let us pounce upon this red prey, let us tear life that passes throbbing and lift together our wild flight."

"Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar."

"Little by little, and also in great leaps, life happened to me, and how insignificant this business is. Carried These veins my blood, what I scarcely ever saw, I Breathed the air of so many places without keeping a sample of any. In the end, everyone is aware of this: nobody keeps any of what I have, and life is only a borrowing of bones. The best thing was learning not to have too much either of sorrow or of joy, to hope for the chance of to last drop, to ask more from honey and from twilight. Perhaps it was my punishment. Perhaps I was condemned to be happy. Let it be known that nobody crossed my path without sharing my being. Plunged I up to the neck into adversities that were not mine, into all the Sufferings of others. It was not a question of applause or profit. Much less. It was not being able to live or breathe In this shadow, the shadow of others like towers, like bitter trees That bury you, like cobblestones on the knees. Wounds heal with our own weeping, our own wounds heal with singing, but in our own doorway lie bleeding. Widows, Indians, poor men, fishermen the miner's child does not know his father amidst all that suffering so be it, but my business was the fullness of the spirit: a cry of pleasure choking you, a sigh from an uprooted plant, the sum of all action. It pleased me to Grow with the morning, to bathe in the sun, in the great joy of sun, salt, sea-light and wave, and in That unwinding of the foam my heart Began to move, That essential growing in spasm, and dying away as it seeped into the sand."

"Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage."

"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."

"Long horse. Gallop hear how the sea, the sky, wants to kill me. Listen how the world is these toxins to destroy me. shall hide me in your arms just for this night, when the rain- mouth the innumerable sea chest and breaks down , listen how the wind Gallop Gallop for my winnings. , with your forehead on my forehead and mouth to mouth our bodies tied to the love that pulls us down let the wind pass and me battle. , let the wind through the canopy of the sea floor, let me sing and chew me when I go down into your big eyes, and only one night in the quiet, my love"

"Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips: maybe it was the voice of the rain crying, a cracked bell, or a torn heart. Something from far off: it seemed deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth, a shout muffled by huge autumns, by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves. Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood?-and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent."

"Love you without knowing how, where to, love you directly without problems without pride: so love you because I know the love of another type."

"Love is a clash of lightnings."

"Love has to be?flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss."

"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."

"Love! Love until the night collapses!"

"My duty moves along with my song: I am I am not: that is my destiny. I exist not if I do not attend to the pain of those who suffer: they are my pains. For I cannot be without existing for all, for all who are silent and oppressed, I come from the people and I sing for them: my poetry is song and punishment."

"My eyes were consumed by your loveliness, but you have become my eyes."

"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."

"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."

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

"Maybe you'll remember that razor-faced man who slipped out from the dark like a blade and -- before we realized -- knew what was there: he saw the smoke and concluded fire. The pallid woman with black hair rose like a fish from the abyss, and the two of them built up a contraption, armed to the teeth, against love. Man and woman, they felled mountains and gardens, they went down to the river, they scaled the walls, they hoisted their atrocious artillery up the hill. Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way."

"My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living."

"My life, you will not find in the well that I fall for you to keep up."

"My soul is an empty carousel at sunset."

"Mitt is the one who prefers black and white, and the points on the letters, instead of the squadron mysterious of emotions sweeping. Mitt is the one who does not turn the table, does not allow himself even for once in his life to escape from the tips logical... dead of fear that raises questions about topics that ignorant, and did not answer when asked about something he knows... dead from bypassing passion... not risk certainty for uncertainty in order to chase a dream."

"My voice searched the wind to touch her ??hearing. Alternatively. She will be another. As before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. Love is so short, and forgetting is so long. 'Cause on nights like this I held my arms, my soul is lost without her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her."

"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. Laugh at the night, at the day, at the moon, laugh at the twisted streets of the island, laugh at this clumsy boy 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 for I would die."

"Naked you are simple as one of your hands; smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round. You've moon-lines, apple pathways naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat. Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba; you've vines and stars in your hair. Naked you are spacious and yellow as summer in a golden church. Naked you are tiny as one of your nails; curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born and you withdraw to the underground world. As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores; your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves, and becomes a naked hand again."

"Never an illness, nor the absence of grandeur, no, nothing is able to kill the best in us, that kindness, dear sir, we are afflicted with: beautiful is the flower of man, his conduct, and every door opens on the beautiful truth and never hides treacherous whispers. I always gained something from making myself better, better than I am, better than I was, that most subtle citation: to recover some lost petal of the sadness I inherited: to search once more for the light that sings inside of me, the unwavering light."

"Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree."

"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."

"O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature."

"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."

"Now, on the road to freedom, I was pausing for a moment near Temuco and could hear the voice of the water that had taught me to sing."

"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."

"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."