EN
At dawn, she’s playful, yet so shy,
shrouding her frailty in an aspen leaf,
and in the morning haze,
with a glimmering gaze into the golden glow,
she veils her dewy face
to drift in sleep once more.
When the sun casts a shadow o'er the line,
and first light breaks through forest fogs,
she dons the guise of modesty for her shyness.
With eyes fixed low upon the floor,
she casts the veil of dew away.
She ripens in that fleeting hour,
when the dance of shadows fades from sight.
Maturity reveals itself in that breath—
though she may thirst for truth,
the truth is but a cold regret.
And that desire, like steam to the sky,
slowly drifts away.
Wisdom, woe, my beloved,
fates the Sibyl has assigned to you.
You await great things,
yet find them in the small.
The shadow grows, and you grow with it.
And your blossoms, bowed with gold,
roll from the slopes to the valley floor,
carried by the stream’s rushing pace.
When late afternoon passes by,
and a crimson glow burns behind the hill,
love’s ache steals into your dreams.
Even the lark, lighting upon your bloom,
graced it with song, then fell from the branch—
dazed by your scent, in the bond of belonging,
he breathes the fresh air once more.
With the veil of night you hide your wrinkles,
under the pretext of renewal,
you cast yourself into my arms in dreams.
We shall wade through
the starry stream together,
as life’s breath falls still and our hearts merge—
departing together, where the moon glows silver.
