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.

by Pablo Neruda

The words I see as I go to bed each and every night. They hang above my bed, watching over me as I sleep. Those beautiful beautiful words. Those words that spoke to me so deeply and ignited my love for the Spanish genius that was Pablo Neruda. 

The light is fading quickly outside. I lay here on my bed, reading through the pages of Nerudas poetry, letting each one speak to me as if a friend. It's quiet moments like these that we take for granted. The moments that we get fully to ourselves. Those moments make you feel as if a wave of tranquility has washed over your body. 


What makes you feel that way?