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

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.