Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart – a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
PABLO NERUDAI can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
More Pablo Neruda Quotes
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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
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Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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I’m not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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While I’m writing, I’m far away; and when I come back, I’ve gone.
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Love has to be flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
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You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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.
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By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness.
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So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
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Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves.
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Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way.
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Love is not about property, diamonds and gifts. It is about sharing your very self with the world around you.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.
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All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.
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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?
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In the eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.”
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In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.
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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
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I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.
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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
PABLO NERUDA