Pablo Neruda

Someday, somewhere — anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

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

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.

I am alone with rickety materials,
the rain falls on me, and it is like me,
it is like me in its raving, alone in the dead world,
repulsed as it falls, and with no persistent form.

I do not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.
I do not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses,
stiff with cold, dying with pain.

One pillar holding up consolations
And don’t bother telling me anything
And so? The pale metalloid heals you?
I have a terrible fear of being an animal.
And what if after so many words,
The anger that breaks a man down into boys.