I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or where from,
I love you simply, without complexities or pride;
I love you in this way, not knowing any other way of loving
but this, in which neither I nor you exist
so close that your hand on my breast is mine,
so close that your eyes close when I sleep.
Pablo Neruda
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