Hay algo más tonto en la vida Que llamarse Pablo Neruda? (is there anything more insane in this life than being called Pablo Neruda?)

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour: loving is a clash of lightning-bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.

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

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.