I do not love you as if you were a salt rose， or topaz

　　or the arrow of carnations¹ 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 fragrance²，

　　risen from the earth， lives darkly in my body.

　　I love you without knowing how， or when， or from where.

　　I love you straightforwardly³， without complexities⁴ 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.