sonnet 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

than this: where i does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as i fall asleep.

pablo neruda