Remember when we sat on that verandah,
outside our rented, rustic Tuscan home;
among those hills, with cypress trees and vines,
just taking in the view and sipping wine?
I said that sitting there, with wine like that
and looks like yours, was my idea of heaven.
But I confess, on looking back,
it wasn't true:
heaven then, as now,
was simply making love to you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem