Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

She did not speak for speech was unknown to her.

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

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.

To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.

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

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.