Sonnet 17

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 it

self 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 straight for wardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other waythan 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