A thick slice of life.
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.
Pablo Neruda
I’m not used to the new landscape.
DROWN; UP The ruins of a church in the Andean town of Potosi in January 2009 (top) and now. The 25-metre-tall church and ruins of a town flooded in the early 1980s have emerged from the Uribante-Caparo reservoir after a drought reduced water levels. (Photo: Reuters via the Telegraph)
