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.
She writes from the heart, says what she feels, and lives to explore. Alone in a crowd and often misunderstood, she's a nomad who finds home wherever she roams and immeasurable joy in the colours of the sunset sky. You'll find her dining alone with a book, on a table for one. This is her story.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
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