Quotes About Time

I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire; and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.

Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejania, como el mar, como el tiempo... Ese fue mi destino y en el viajo mi anhelo, y en el mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio! (You swallowed everything, like distance, like the sea, like time. This was my destiny and it was the voyage of my longing, in it my longing fell, in you everything sank.)

You are the trembling of time, that passes between vertical light and darkened sky

If you should ask me where I've been all this time I have to say Things happen. I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth, on the river ruined in its own duration: I know nothing save things the birds have lost, the sea I left behind, or my sister crying. Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock with day? Why the dark night swilling round in our mouths? And why the dead?

Each hour, Each day

Hoy es hoy, y ayer se fue. No hay duda.

Saudade é amar um passado que ainda não passou. É recusar o presente que nos machuca. É não ver o futuro que nos convida...

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

Life is so short. Forgetting is so long

Love is so short, and forgetting takes so long.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos, mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

My love has two lifetimes to love you. That's how I can love you when I don't, and still love you when I do.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go, we will go together, over the waters of time. No one else will travel through the shadows with me, only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Sufre más el que espera siempre Que aquel que nunca esperó a nadie?

Es la hora, amor mío, de apartar esta rosa sombría, cerrar las estrellas, enterrar la ceniza en la tierra: y en la insurrección de la luz, despertar con los que despertaron o seguir en el sueño alcanzando la otra orilla del mar que no tiene otra orilla.

The street heaves and winds, burns and bumps, but behind the glass the locksmith, the old curator of timepieces, stands motionless with a single protruding eye, one amazing eye which peers into the mystery, the secret hearts of clocks, and looks deeply in until the elusive butterfly of time in its measure is trapped in his forehead and the wings of the watch beat. -from To Don Asterio Alarcón, Clocksmith of Valparaíso

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

Dónde está el niño que yo fui, Sigue adentro de mí o se fue? Sabe que no lo quise nunca Y que tampoco me quería? Por qué anduvimos tanto tiempo Creciendo para separarnos? Por qué no morimos los dos Cuándo mi infancia se murió? Y si el alma se me cayó Por qué me sigue el esqueleto?

How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? A week, or several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say 'for ever'? Lost in these preoccupation I set myself to clear things up. .... In my own country the undertakers answered me, between drinks: 'Get yourself a good woman and give up this nonsense.' And How Long - Pablo Neruda

Do you not hear the constant victory, in the human footrace of time, slow as fire, sure, and thick and Herculean accumulating its volume and adding its sad fiber?

It's today: all of yesterday was falling between fingers of light and sleepy eyes

How the clock moves on, relentlessly, with such assurance that it eats the years. The days are small and transitory grapes, The months grow faded, taken out of time. It fades, it falls away, the moment, fired by that implacable artillery and suddenly, only a year is left to us, a month, a day, and death turns up in the diary.

Entonces,dónde estabas? Entre qué gentes? Diciendo qué palabras? Por qué se me vendrá todo el amor de golpe Cuando me siento triste,y te siento tan lejana?

Along the Chilean coast, with cold and winter, when rain falls washing the weeks. Listen: solitude becomes music once more, and it seems its appearance is that of air, of rain, that time, something with wave and wings, passes by, grows. And the harp awakes from oblivion.