A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don't slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices. |
A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly. |
And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us. |
But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies. |
I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated /that had been sleeping in your soul. |
I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain dark things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. |
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests. |
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way. |
I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done. |
I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees. |
Love is so short, forgetting is so long. |
Now, on the road to freedom, I was pausing for a moment near Temuco and could hear the voice of the water that had taught me to sing. |
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread. |
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood? |
Quiero hacer contigo Lo que primavera hace con los cerazos |