Poems by Pablo Neruda

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My dog has died.
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
I am not jealous
How neatly a cat sleeps,
We have lost even this twilight.
Come with me, I said, and no one knew
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with
The young maricones and the horny muchachas,
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I do not love you except because I love you;
I like for you to be still
I want you to know
Leaning into the afternoons,
What's wrong with you, with us,
I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
Neither clown nor child nor black
Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
From bristly foliage
Among the market greens,
Out of lemon flowers
The artichoke
In the storm-tossed
America, from a grain
This salt
The artichoke
>From blossoms
Onion,
The street
Day-colored wine,
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
The light wraps you in its mortal flame.
Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
O tower of light, sad beauty
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin.
When I cannot look at your face

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