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