Pablo Neruda Quotes
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I need the sea because it teaches me
Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.
In the distance someone is singing.
I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.
Under your skin the moon is alive.
It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
There is no space wider than that of grief.
I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.
with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.
What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.
Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world?
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
Poetry is an act of peace.
Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
Sufre mas el que espera siempre que aquel que nunca espero a nadie? Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone?
Hate is like a swordfish, working through water invisibly and then you see it coming with blood along its blade, but transparency disarms it.
The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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.
When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?
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.
Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.
I was the owner of my own darkness.
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.
In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.