2.Only fourteen other nights that I’ll live here, in the scent of pine forests, then, for you, to you I come.
Before the first snow falls from the sky, we will marry. Our life’s long for this, like a sick man longs for the morning. The wedding dress is ready, brushed each week, the rings, like dreams of a house in the middle of birches.
With our eyes we can not look at the sun - but our love is way too bright, not to follow the gestures of our hearts.
It will unite us again and prepare from two different grapes, one good wine. Meant for each other, from youth, two plants that are only able to bloom, when they support each other. When we played together, people talked to each other: determined to be a couple. At that time I cut crowns from paper for you, wrapped you in colourful curtains, cloth ... my prince, my elf, from a far country.
For you I want to be someone else, holding on to you, clinging to life.
Without you there is no future, no sky in the distance. Then I am a dry leaf and would love breathing life out, here in all the solitude, while the monks sing in the Abbey their Psalms.
You are the dew that brings me to life, in you reflects the glory of heaven. I count the days, patiently and carefully, like a woman who winds a ball of wool. I will not be afraid.
The farmer and his wife, with whom I live, are of the same type as the bread that they serve me daily. They have sown and cut the seeds, they bake the bread themselves, and it is heavy and dark.
They don’t say much, now and then a word about work; and still, they don’t look into each others eye: it is as if they were speaking in the dark.
I often wander to the mysterious lake in the forest. A thousand years ago a prince drowned in it. Some nights you can see the gold of the crown shining in the water. Old people say, that monks walked around the pond at night, singing “Libera nos, Domine".
I sit here and dream to see a glimmer of your face in the silent, deep water.
For you I want to be someone else, holding on to you, clinging to life.
Without you there is no future, no sky in the distance. Then I am a dry leaf and would love breathing life out, here in all the solitude, while the monks sing in the Abbey their Psalms.
You are the dew that brings me to life, in you reflects the glory of heaven. I count the days, patiently and carefully, like a woman who winds a ball of wool. I will not be afraid.
The farmer and his wife, with whom I live, are of the same type as the bread that they serve me daily. They have sown and cut the seeds, they bake the bread themselves, and it is heavy and dark.
They don’t say much, now and then a word about work; and still, they don’t look into each others eye: it is as if they were speaking in the dark.
I often wander to the mysterious lake in the forest. A thousand years ago a prince drowned in it. Some nights you can see the gold of the crown shining in the water. Old people say, that monks walked around the pond at night, singing “Libera nos, Domine".
I sit here and dream to see a glimmer of your face in the silent, deep water.
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