Pablo Neruda

Perhaps the earth can teach us_x000D_ _x000D_ As when everything seems dead_x000D_ _x000D_ And later proves to be alive

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.

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.

And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.

Who hasn't sharpened the edge of his soul? When, just as our eyes are opened, we see hate, and just after learning to walk, we are tripped, and just for wanting to love, we are hated, and for no more than touching, we are hurt, which of us hasn't started to arm himself, to make himself sharp, somehow, like a knife, to pay back the hurt?

I love all the things there are, _x000D_ and of all fires _x000D_ love is the only inexhaustible one; _x000D_ and that's why I go from life to life.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness

I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.

You came to my life with what you were bringing, made of light and bread and shadow I expected you, and Like this I need you, Like this I love you, and to those who want to hear tomorrow that which I will not tell them, let them read it here, and let them back off today because it is early for these arguments.

I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.

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

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

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

Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?

Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?

I love you as one loves certain dark things.

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.