Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose

tagged: animals, death, dogs

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More from Pablo Neruda

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.

Wall Street Journal 14 Nov 85

Latin America is very fond of the word “hope.” We like to be called the “continent of hope.” Candidates for deputy, senator, president, call themselves “candidates of hope.” This hope is really something like a promise of heaven, an IOU whose payment is always being put off. It is put off until the next legislative campaign, until next year, until the next century.

Memoirs, ch. 11

The darkness of a day elapsed,
of a day nourished with our sad blood.

There Is No Forgetting: Sonata, Residencia en la Tierra (1925-1935) (1935)

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.

Memoirs, ch. 11

all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

A Dog Has Died