Happy birthday, poet 
In commemoration of the birth of a large, Pablo Neruda, gift them one of the many poems that fill the soul with feelings ...
Poetry AND WAS at that age ... Poetry arrived for me. I do not know, do not know where came from, from winter or a river. I do not know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were words, nor silence, but from a street called me, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone
, there was no face and it touched me
. I do not know what to say, my mouth did not know appoint my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own, deciphering that fire and wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense , pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the sky shelled, open planets, palpitating plantations , shadow perforated, riddled arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe . And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void , likeness, image the mystery, I felt pure part of the abyss, wheeled with the stars, my heart broke out in the wind.
