I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky. To feel that I have lost her. Chile's political situation was in turmoil at the time. I can write the saddest lines tonight. The tone is modernista —simple, evocative and, at times, meditative. Later, you placed the shot of the swing unraveling at a shift in the music. They live, before you, in the solitude you enter, and are accustomed, more than you, to my sadnesses.
What can it hope for? La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo. As she was before my kisses. Under your skin the moon is alive. And the rain that often beat down filling its words with holes and birds. The main point that I wanted to convey in my film was chaos.
The night gallops, on its mare of shadows, spilling blue silken tassels of corn, over the fields. And this lends universality to Tonight I Can Write. Because the poem sounds like a sad love song it shapes the tone and mood to be more somber, regretful, and even bitter towards the end as he begins to move on. And the leaves fell in the water of your soul. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
For me your beauty holds all of the perfume, all of the wandering corrosion, all its dark night. Todo era felicidad entre ellos y el amor era vivido en su más alta intensidad; sin embargo, el amor también cumple un ciclo vital, pues nació, se desarrolló y luego murió de alguna manera: Es ese pensamiento en la amada perdida que inspira al poeta y se constituye en su fuente de creación. Jackals that the jackal would drive away, stones that the dry thistle would bite and spit out, vipers that the vipers would hate! 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. They had been drinking: they began to spit. I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.
The series is known for its philosophical examination of the theme of universal decay; and for its fierce, anguished tone mixed with Surrealistic pessimism. So you rose out of the South like an islet, crowned, populated, by plumage and timber, and I sensed the fragrance of wandering woodland. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. Tell me who you are, full of boats, full of moons the wind crushes, mistress of all metals, rose of the depths, rose drenched by the harsh weather of naked love. The other feet were still his, and the other hands, the man remained: when it seemed that now he was done for he was the same once more, there he was digging again at the earth, cutting cloth, minus a shirt, there he was and was not, like before, he had gone down and was once more, and since he never owned graveyards, or tombs, nor was his name carved on the stone he sweated to quarry, no one knew he had come and no one knew when he died, so that only when the poor man could he returned to life once more, without it being noted.
Poetry appeared, almost literally, at his doorsteps like a long-lost friend or a sudden guest. Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets to that sea that beats on your marine eyes. He painted in an abstract manner which changed the effects of the paintings. Context Chile has an interesting political background owing to its Spanish Heritage and the way the country has been governed up until the late 19th century the country was primarily run by a group of wealthy landowners, but this prompted much unrest and eventually civil war. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. Ah tu voz lenta y triste! Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, my soul is lost without her.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. It falls to the earth: there it continues. This day was all the Earth. You want to know the matter electric, caught on the forks of the deep? Hear the vast night, vaster without her. I am making them into an endless necklace for you white hands, smooth as grapes. Upstream, in the midst of the outer waves, your parallel body yields to my arms like a fish infinitely fastened to my soul, quick and slow, in the energy under the sky.
Hear the vast night, vaster without her. Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. I, who knew him, saw him descend till he was no longer except what he left: roads he could scarcely know, houses he never ever would live in. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
Pese a ello, desea tenerla cerca y la única manera que encuentra es buscándola a través del recuerdo, manifestado en su poema. Not a single woman without her crown. Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass. I only want release from being stone or wool. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. Neruda became a much greater poet than Vallejo who deserved recognition more. Further, and nearer still, still it came from dead fathers, nomadic races, from lands made of stone, that were tired of their wretched tribes, because when pain set out on the way the villages walked and arrived and new earth and water joined again to sow their words anew.
There she rested, gazing, at our empty existence, the doing, and being, and going, and coming, all over Earth, and day was discolouring its measure of petals. There is wonder as the poet perceives a new world opening up before him, and it is significant that he should use words that are, once again, a reminder of the American colonies, and thereby the master-slave relationship. The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh. The sorrows will be divided: the soul give a gasp of air, and the dwelling-place will be left clean, with fresh-made bread on the table. So that whatever of death surrounds me opens in me the window on life and in the full paroxysm I am sleeping. About Pablo Neruda and His Poetry belonged to a group of Spanish poets, called the Generation of 1927.