Wednesday, February 14, 2018

sonnet xvii





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I do not love you as if you were the 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.


–Pablo Neruda
Sonnet XVll

...


Te l’ai dit en janvier
Te le dirai en août.
I told you in January
I will tell you in August.

–Félix Leclerc


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dorothea tanning, 1945
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