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 (1904-1973), Chilean writer
Cien Sonetos de Amor (100 Love Sonnets)

Originally published in Canto on 7 January 2007

My Begotten Son
Left His heavenly glory for a lowly birth
Treaded the path of earthly sorrows
Endured persecution from His own creation
Died a slow, torturous, and humiliating death

My precious, precious child
I already gave you My Begotten Son
What good shall I withhold from you?
Abide in Me
Trust Me

It's a latitude where you can't tell
whether you're living in dreams or reality
Or ever floating in-between
People say life is but a dream, but these days
I am unsure which is which

Reached up my hand, through the water's surface
into thick air, that felt void
my body hanging mid air

A city of smog underneath
Bustling in an awful silence
Blood trickles down my toes
Drips down, vanishes in the clouds
wait
One drop fell on a man's head
Down his hair, into his scalp

Still he went about his business
Not knowing