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Sonnet XVII By Pablo Neruda
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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.
Presented by: Let Us Write
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This is a collaborative writing project. Stories are written by many authors associated with the project. This means, you can also be an author and shape up the story-line. We would love to have your contribution in this regard. You can either comment on the story-line or send us your piece of the story. If you wish to contribute regularly, please get into touch with us through this form. All contributions will be acknowledged in due course.
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