The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
Pablo NerudaTo feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.
Pablo NerudaComo se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?
Pablo Neruda