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Poems by Pablo Neruda

Poet, diplomat and politician, born tuesday july 12, 1904 in Parral (Chile), died sunday september 23, 1973 in Santiago de Chile (Chile)
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Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
Objects:
Nothing mattered or had a name:
The world was made of air, which waited.

I knew rooms full of ashes,
Tunnels where the moon lived,
Rough warehouses that growled'get lost',
Questions that insisted in the sand.

Everything was empty, dead, mute,
Fallen abandoned, and decayed:
Inconceivably alien, it all

Belonged to someone else - to no one:
Till your beauty and your poverty
Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.
Pablo Neruda
from the book "" by Pablo Neruda
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    And something started in my soul,
    fever or forgotten wings,
    and I made my own way,
    deciphering
    that fire,
    and I wrote the first faint line,
    faint, without substance, pure
    nonsense,
    pure wisdom
    of someone who knows nothing,
    and I suddenly saw
    the heavens
    unfastened
    and open.
    Pablo Neruda
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      I am alone with rickety materials,
      the rain falls on me, and it is like me,
      it is like me in its raving, alone in the dead world,
      repulsed as it falls, and with no persistent form.
      Pablo Neruda
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        I do not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.
        I do not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
        as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses,
        stiff with cold, dying with pain.
        Pablo Neruda
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          It is time, love, to break off that sombre 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.
          Pablo Neruda
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            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.
            Pablo Neruda
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              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.
              Pablo Neruda
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                Don't you know there is no one in the streets
                and no one in the houses?
                There are only eyes in the windows.
                If you don't have a place to sleep,
                knock on a door and it will open,
                open up to a certain point
                and you will see that it is cold inside,
                and that that house is empty
                and wants nothing to do with you,
                your stories mean nothing,
                and if you insist on being gentle,
                the dog and the cat will bite you.
                Pablo Neruda
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