The little crimson blossom as it shoots forth
from the tip of a leafy branch
and full-lipped roses unchaffed by the sun,
cooing in the sparkling air,
and the chorus of finch and swallow
as they herald in the dawn outside my window;
and truly the singing mountain ridge which speaks
and speaks to them and to me ceaselessly ceaselessly,
whose robust arches and gorges, embracing lakes
branch out to draw me to their embrace.
All of this testifies that we are loved where we stand.
As I see, and as I hear,
so also do I love in return, ceaselessly.
And everywhere I turn my beloved turns to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment