SONNET XVII

I don’t love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
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;
and 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 simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving
than this, in which there is no I nor you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that as I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Pablo Neruda, Cien sonetos de amor ("100 Love Sonnets")