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 love, 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

 

(Pablo Neruda Sonnet XVII)