Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations that 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.