Sonnet XVII
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 carried
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 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
but this, in which there is no I or
you,
so intimate that you hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that
when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
- Pablo Neruda