A thought on a dark Sunday evening...

I have, in recent months, become acquainted with the translated works of Pablo Neruda. I regret not speaking Spanish to read the originals as they are intended. Even the translations I have read are rich, vivid and compelling; I share this purely for its beauty.

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were 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 straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda