PATCH

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz,
or the arrow of carnation the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between 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 in my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda