discovered his lyrics while the theater came into my life as a gift of fate that I never tire of thanking. At that time I was 14 and started to loose hair known as the greatest of my heartache and had stopped wearing glasses because one of my friends had taken a good push on the balcony making them fall from the third floor. It was just
in this period when I heard the first "I like you calm, as absent and started reading, slowly falling in love with each word to believe in vain for it was me who wrote desperate to lack of time to celebrate my hair eager for my laughter and my naked body, as simple as the palm of your hand.
Many ask me why I like both, and contrary to what they might think the answer is no: I'm no necrophiliac. My theory is that I understand how he feels or maybe there is that meeting all the romance I'll never have in real life. Let's face it, I was wrong for this century of the relationship because even though I want it nobody will come to put your bag so that my feet do not touch the puddles, and I find roses on my balcony ....
So I guess I can always imagine that I am the earthly shell of passionate poetry of Neruda love poems hundred or political convictions stood still for me to find and blow my praise as well known, you know what Neruda has a poem about his frustrations as a writer? When I read it, smiled like a fool to learn that he despaired of the rules of punctuation and grammar strictly. It makes me feel a little better than even he had ever crisis in their lyrics and their ability to transcend them. I know
Pablo Neruda was an ugly man, very passionate, confident and angry, and although many years ago that left this world, the truth is that I love with a madness that only a few cycles of reading could understand. Someday I will go to Chile and I will know their homes, I must do before I die, to feel itself all its essence that surely had to have been steeped in the home that he knew.
For him, every morning I ask the twilight peace and love coming sincerely love sailors kiss and go. It sometimes happens that I am tired of being a man and my right hand only wants to write Rosario, caught in the eternal illusion get to write the love that makes the bread and grapes. Just in his books find a fury and passion that is similar to mine without fear of contradiction, and who knows me knows that I am not exaggerating: this way I feel and live fully characterized.
I return to my pages before sleep because only then I can continue to believe that this fantasy of poets can be real and that at least someone thinks I might be a queen. Nobody sees my crystal crown, no one looks at the carpet of red gold that floor where passage, but he (unknowingly) has appointed me his queen.
Anabel.
in this period when I heard the first "I like you calm, as absent and started reading, slowly falling in love with each word to believe in vain for it was me who wrote desperate to lack of time to celebrate my hair eager for my laughter and my naked body, as simple as the palm of your hand.
Many ask me why I like both, and contrary to what they might think the answer is no: I'm no necrophiliac. My theory is that I understand how he feels or maybe there is that meeting all the romance I'll never have in real life. Let's face it, I was wrong for this century of the relationship because even though I want it nobody will come to put your bag so that my feet do not touch the puddles, and I find roses on my balcony ....
So I guess I can always imagine that I am the earthly shell of passionate poetry of Neruda love poems hundred or political convictions stood still for me to find and blow my praise as well known, you know what Neruda has a poem about his frustrations as a writer? When I read it, smiled like a fool to learn that he despaired of the rules of punctuation and grammar strictly. It makes me feel a little better than even he had ever crisis in their lyrics and their ability to transcend them. I know
Pablo Neruda was an ugly man, very passionate, confident and angry, and although many years ago that left this world, the truth is that I love with a madness that only a few cycles of reading could understand. Someday I will go to Chile and I will know their homes, I must do before I die, to feel itself all its essence that surely had to have been steeped in the home that he knew.
For him, every morning I ask the twilight peace and love coming sincerely love sailors kiss and go. It sometimes happens that I am tired of being a man and my right hand only wants to write Rosario, caught in the eternal illusion get to write the love that makes the bread and grapes. Just in his books find a fury and passion that is similar to mine without fear of contradiction, and who knows me knows that I am not exaggerating: this way I feel and live fully characterized.
I return to my pages before sleep because only then I can continue to believe that this fantasy of poets can be real and that at least someone thinks I might be a queen. Nobody sees my crystal crown, no one looks at the carpet of red gold that floor where passage, but he (unknowingly) has appointed me his queen.
Anabel.
