Pablo Neruda has always intrigued me because of his unique writing style across different subjects. His writing spans a broad array of subjects. The differences in his approach and the use of different styles are quite striking. 

There is no similarity. In fact, there is too much dissimilarity. His poem “Nothing but death” is a fine example.

Sharing here the poem by Neruda, one of Spain's greatest poets, translated by Robert Bly.

There are cemeteries that are lonely, 
graves full of bones that do not make a sound, 
the heart moving through a tunnel, 
in it darkness, darkness, darkness, 
like a shipwreck, we die going into ourselves, 
as though we were drowning inside our hearts, 
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. 

 
And there are corpses, 
feet made of cold and sticky clay, 
death is inside the bones, 
like a barking where there are no dogs, 
coming out from bells somewhere, 

from graves somewhere, 
growing in the damp air like tears of rain. 

Sometimes I see alone 
coffins under sail, 
embarking with the pale dead, 

with women that have dead hair, 
with bakers who are as white as angels, 
and pensive young girls married to notary publics, 
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, 
the river of dark purple, 
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, 
filled by the sound of death which is silence. 

Death arrives among all that sound 
like a shoe with no foot in it, 

like a suit with no man in it, 
comes and knocks, using a ring 

with no stone in it, with no finger in it, 
comes and shouts with no mouth, 

with no tongue, with no throat. 
Nevertheless, its steps can be heard 
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. 
 
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, 
but it seems to me that 

its singing has the color of damp violets, 

of violets that are at home in the earth, 
because the face of death is green, 
and the look death gives is green, 
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf 
and the somber color of embittered winter. 

 
But death also goes through 

the world dressed as a broom, 
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, 
death is inside the broom, 
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, 
it is the needle of death looking for thread. 

 
Death is inside the folding cots: 
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, 
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: 
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, 
and the beds go sailing toward a port 
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.