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.
Pablo NerudaThe typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
Pablo NerudaWe open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on
Pablo NerudaOver your breasts of motionless current, over your legs of firmness and water, over the permanence and the pride of your naked hair I want to be, my love, now that the tears are thrown into the raucous baskets where they accumulate, I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable of mangled silver, alone with a tip of your breast of snow.
Pablo Neruda