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Love Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I don’t love you as if you were the
salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate
fire:
I love you as certain dark things are
loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the
soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t
bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those
flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my
body
lives the dense fragrance that rises
from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or
when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or
pride
I love you in this way because I don’t
know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my
chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it
is your eyes that close.

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