In a bucolic rotunda
We admired the distant mountains crowded with pines,
Dark-green spots, minuscule figures
In the fine silver thread between God and humanity.
In a solitary rotunda
We talked, we laughed,
Soft, loving echoes tapped the ancient wood
One dream, the same dream.
The rustic bench we were sitting on
Would be covered with a mantle of spring flowers
After our company.
Creepers would climb the idyllic gallery
As our mellow presence cured its nostalgia.
The sun so warm, rewarding,
Irradiated auras of something pure.
I leaned my head on your shoulder, the eyes closed
Your voice filled with peaceful notes the quiet morning
I need the Beauty´, I whispered
Words from the heart carrying desires for unknown bliss
Inside, you wanted and longed for that rare plenitude
There are tracks in the snow
Precise and neat
We walk hand by hand along imaginary paths
White paths towards rotunda universes
Constellations of pristine Beauty grow in our souls