soneta 17 - Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were a rose made of salt or topaz,
or an arrow of carnations spreading fire
I love you the way certain dark things are loved, secretly,
between the shadow and the soul.

I love you like the plant that never blooms,
but conceals within itself the light of those flowers;
and, thanks to your love,
the darkness of my body houses the suffocating aroma that arose from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, when, or where from;
I love you straightforwardly, with neither problems nor pride:
I love you thus, not knowing how to love you otherwise than this way whereby neither ‘you’ nor ‘I’ exist...
so close, that your hand on my chest is mine,
so close, that your eyes grow heavy when I tire.