Nerudas Sonnet XVII

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.

I just felt completely exhausted and a tad melancholic after a long, hard day at work tonight (*sigh* …I so need a good, comforting oil massage!!!) so I revisited my favorite book of poetry by Pablo Neruda, which has my scribbled penciled notes of personal, clandestine thoughts and several snubs of bookmarks here and there, to tab my favorite pages.

As I always believe… Great things should be passed on and not kept selfishly.

So, this is just for you.

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