I was rummaging though my things looking for something today and in side an old choclate box (how clichéd!) I came upon a yellowed bit of note paper with a poem on it given to me by an American friend probably 15 years ago. I did not find what I set out to, but I found what I was looking for.
Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.
And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.
I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.
And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.
El Salvadoran poet, murdered 1975
EDIT: This is not Neruda, but Miguel Angel Asturias, guatemalan writer and Nobel Prize winner.