The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones.

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are... | Pablo Neruda

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. - Pablo Neruda


Style Clean Single

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda

Style Spiral Note Book

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda

Style Default

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda

Style BlackWhiteShadow

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda

Style BoldShapes

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda

Style Wild Strawberries

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda

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