Pablo Neruda

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.