Sonetos de Amor

 
 
I feel akin to him. I
 have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.
Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him.

I know I must conceal my sentiments.
I must smother hope.
I must remember that he cannot care much for me.
I must repeat continually that we are forever sundered.
And yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

I do not love you as if you were salt-sore 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 never blooms but carries 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; in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my han
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close.

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