Sonnet

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 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.

Pablo Neruda