I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and

Hear the words of Pablo Neruda, son of Chile, prophet of passion, who once declared: “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.” In these lines he does not merely describe his childhood, but reveals the sacred origin of his voice, showing how the land itself shaped his art. He teaches us that the poet is not born in isolation, but from the embrace of earth, water, and sky. His verses are not inventions of the mind alone, but echoes of the world that raised him.

For Neruda’s poetry was never divorced from nature; it was woven into it. The hill gave him perspective, the ability to look beyond horizons. The river carried the rhythm of life, flowing endlessly, whispering to him of continuity and change. The rain, falling softly upon his town, gave him music, the delicate cadence that would later pulse through his verses. And the forests, with their silence and mystery, offered him depth, a rootedness that gave his words weight. Thus, his voice was not forged in schools or salons, but in the wilderness of creation itself.

The ancients too spoke of such origins. Hesiod, the Greek poet, declared that the Muses came to him in the fields, gifting him with the power of song. The prophets of Israel drew their strength not from marble palaces, but from deserts and mountains. Even Shakespeare found his language in the pulse of England’s soil, in the forests of Arden and the flow of the Avon. So it was with Neruda: his poetry was the child of the land, and he bore it proudly, never severing his art from his roots.

History gives us examples of voices shaped by their landscapes. Consider Robert Burns of Scotland, who sang of the heather, the lark, the simple plowman’s life. His poetry was not abstract but steeped in the soil of his homeland. Or think of Langston Hughes, who drew the rhythm of his verse from the river, from the Mississippi’s deep song, from the pulse of the Harlem streets. Like Neruda, they testify that a poet’s truth is drawn not from imagination alone, but from the world in which they dwell.

Yet Neruda’s words carry more than remembrance—they carry identity. By tying his poetry to hill, river, rain, and forest, he shows that the self is inseparable from its environment. To know Neruda’s work is to know Chile; to know Chile is to hear Neruda’s work. This is why his voice, though personal, becomes universal. For when a poet draws honestly from his roots, he speaks not only for himself, but for all who share the same soil and sky.

O seekers, learn from this: your own art, your own life, is shaped by the land around you. Do not despise your roots, whether humble or grand, for they are the wellspring of your truth. Look to the rivers and hills that raised you, to the seasons and streets that carved your character. Within them lies the raw material of your voice. And even if you are not a poet by trade, your life itself is a kind of poetry—your choices, your actions, your legacy shaped by the place that birthed you.

Practical is this wisdom: return to nature, to silence, to the elements that first spoke to you. Walk by the waters, climb the hills, listen to the wind in the trees. Let them remind you of who you are. And when you create—whether words, music, or deeds—let them carry the cadence of your roots, the voice of the rain, the endurance of the forest, the flow of the river. For authenticity arises not from imitation of others, but from steeping oneself in the truth of one’s own origin.

Thus Pablo Neruda’s words endure as a song of belonging: the poet and the land are one. His poetry was born not from ambition, but from listening—to the hill, the river, the rain, the forest. And so must we listen, if we wish our lives to bear fruit that is true. For in the end, it is not the grandeur of faraway things, but the depth of what is nearest, that gives a voice its eternal power.