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Friday, March 26, 2010

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were a 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 simply, without complexities or pride;
I love you in this way because I know no other way of loving.

But this, where I does not exist, nor you,
so intimate that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes close that I close.

-Pablo Naruda

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