And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets… - Pablo Neruda
" "And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the bloods in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!
English
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About Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda (born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto; 12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973) was a Chilean poet-diplomat and politician who won the 1971 Nobel Prize in Literature. Neruda became known as a poet when he was 13 years old, and wrote in a variety of styles, including surrealist poems, historical epics, overtly political manifestos, a prose autobiography, and passionate love poems such as the ones in his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (1924).
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
Nieh-lu-ta
•
Pamplo Nerouda
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Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
•
Bāblū Nīrūdā
•
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
•
Nieluda
•
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
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Neftali Reyes Basualto
•
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
•
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
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Neftalí Reyes Basualto
•
Pāplō Nerūda
•
Neftalí Reyespeneto
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Additional quotes by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Later on you will find buried near the coconut tree
the knife which I hid there for fear you would kill me,
and now suddenly I would be glad to smell its kitchen steel
used to the weight of your hand, the shine of your foot:
under the dampness of the ground, among the deaf roots,
in all the languages of the men only the poor will know your name,
and the dense earth does not understand your name
made of impenetrable divine substances.
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