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Within this forest copse
lie the softest dreams of years gone by —
seeds of laughter, ripened suns,
the tender breath of summers past.

Time was my companion here:
hands deep in soil, coaxing life
from furrows heavy with promise —
tomatoes blushing, salads crisp with morning dew,
and fruit, the jewels of the princesses
of olive groves, shining in their silver light.

Here once stood the table,
laden with feast and joy,
where friends, like vines,
wound their laughter through the dusk.
And near, the silent company of felines departed
still drifts among the oaks and poplars,
their spirits brushing against the gold of evening leaves.

Now I gather the harvest of another waning year,
and memory plays its soft lament —
as in the Brahms quintets,
where sorrow and sweetness merge,
each note dissolving into the next
in an almost unbearable beauty.

The November sun sinks low;
its rosy gleam folds into the azure sky.
Around me the earth exhales
her perfume of leaf and shadow,
and I, grown tender with remembering,
feel her cradle close once more —
the living earth, the loving earth,
the eternal earth —
holding time, and all of us,
in her dark, forgiving hands.

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