I'd like to have a hut in the wild forest density,
Made of firewood and a forest's scarcity.
Hanged high among old branches pinions,
Often a song sings in my soul, sad and forlorn,
For two people, who so yearned to be lovers sworn.
The lip is the lip's friend, the hand the hand's
Lying next each other each one understands
To whom he belongs - each one of the buried dead.
He reached the graveyard, - grass, death, oblivion,-
He who had noticed how the world goes on.
A nowhere sailing golden boat,
A lilac shore – and my dismay.
Let’s glide in tandem, like two ships,
Those paths I brushed
With the feet of a child - where have they gone ?
They roll down as tears do, hushed,
Out of the eyes, down, down.
Were I to meet you again for the first time,
But in a different orchard, in a different wood—
Perhaps for us the trees would sigh differently,