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 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.