I'm pretty swamped work-wise for the next two weeks, so I'll leave you with one of my favourite poems until I can come up with blog posts that are a bit more scintillating.
Love Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, a topaz
or an arrow of carnations that spread fire:
I love you like certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you like the plant that does not bloom
and carries in itself, hidden, the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love,
the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives darkly in my body.
I love without knowing how, nor when, nor from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you this way because I know no other way to love,
only in this way in which I am not and you are not,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my sleep.
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Two absolute must reads are Neruda's "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada," and Khalil Gibran's letters to May Ziadah. They're both excellent.
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