On the Hillside
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On the slope of the forest where the nightingale nests.
There, on the downhill,
where is a hundred-year-old oak tree.
Barely embraced by your tender arms.
In Hadrian's shrine shade.
*
Our garden is right there.
Your embrace is a garden to my being.
Shelter for the soul,
food for the body.
The game of life is weaved by our hands,
in the face and body sweat.
*
Scratched by the time thorns,
we have lost hope
However, the flowers woke up,
and their beauty tears down.
I lie in your arms and listen.
You talk about how shiny flower petals are.
All the colors are there,
it is breathtaking.
In delight, you cover your face with your hands.
Because of the delightful song of pollen.
*
You call my name, like no one before.
A magical call to the past snow avalanches.
At dusk, as the sun goes down.
Leaning against the oak,
I still dream of you.
In your embrace,
I seek the touch of eternity.
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