XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
In secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how or when, or from where
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way
That is: where I does not exist, nor you
So close that hand on my chest is your hand,
So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
** by Pablo Neruda **
