(Pablo Neruda)
I love you not as if you were topaz, a saline
rose, quiverful of carnations strewing flame —
I love you in secrecy, as one loves certain
unclear things, between shadow and the soul. No bloom
on the plant I love as I love you, which retains,
interred in itself, the light of its lost blossoms,
while in my flesh the dense, ascending fragrance
earth generates now darkly resides, by reason
of your love. I love you without knowing how, when,
where from, I love you straight on, no complication
or pride, love you like this because I’ve never known
another way to love: you and I have no more meaning,
so close that your hand on my body is my own,
so close now your eyelids close with my sleeping.