Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral)

Comments about Pablo Neruda

  • narayanan namboodiri (3/21/2018 9:10:00 PM)

    wonderful world

    14 person liked.
    6 person did not like.
  • Chelsey (3/14/2018 8:40:00 PM)

    See your pomes.

  • gugulethu (3/14/2018 12:47:00 PM)

    l do not love you except because l love you

  • Pablo Neruda (3/4/2018 4:56:00 PM)

    gracias por todos los comentarios

  • Susan Parker (2/6/2018 5:17:00 AM)

    Saw this excerpt from a poem by Neruda on the museum in Valparaiso I don’ t what the translation is . Can any one help?

  • kolby patterson (1/10/2018 10:53:00 AM)

    herro everyone

  • Sara mcday (1/5/2018 7:54:00 PM)

    I love if you forgot me.

  • Alison Mujati Alison Mujati (1/3/2018 11:22:00 AM)

    This is amazing.......

  • saandra.lopz (12/20/2017 11:48:00 AM)

    I just got paid $6784 working off my laptop this month. And if you think that's cool, my divorced friend has twin toddlers and made over $9k her first month. It feels so good making so much money when other people have to work for so much less. This is what I do,
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  • Mary Skarpathiotaki Mary Skarpathiotaki (12/20/2017 2:30:00 AM)

    i like too much the sonnets for love i vote 10++++++++++++

Best Poem of Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,...

Read the full of If You Forget Me

Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

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