In the words of Pablo Neruda:
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.
When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.
A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
I love all the things there are, and of all fires love is the only inexhaustible one; and that's why I go from life to life.
From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.
Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.
I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.
Hate is like a swordfish, working through water invisibly and then you see it coming with blood along its blade, but transparency disarms it.
Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.
I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest.
And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.
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.
But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.
To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.
And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.
He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.
The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.
There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
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.
Love is not about property, diamonds and gifts. It is about sharing your very self with the world around you.
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.
Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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