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XVII (I do not love you…) by Pablo Neruda, 1959 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. |
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