Pablo Neruda

that that house is empty
and wants nothing to do with you,
your stories mean nothing,
and if you insist on being gentle,
the dog and the cat will bite you.

And something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and I suddenly saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open.

I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.

Love is so short and forgetting is so long.

the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds.

He learned the alphabet of the lightning

shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth;
and, in the rising of the light, wake with those who awoke

Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond.
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.