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 as the plant that never blooms
but carries within itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
arisen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love straightforwardly, without complexities or prode;
I love you so because I know no other way.
than this: where there is no 'I' nor 'you,'
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.