So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

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

Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.

I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. I love you still among these cold things. Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels that cross the sea towards no arrival. I see myself forgotten like those old anchors. The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there. My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose. I love what I do not have. You are so far. My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights. But night comes and starts to sing to me.

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