Your hands hold roses always in a way that reaching Far to me, when I hide, doubt, and fail to believing. And when I rise, trembling under lunar and her verdant veil, the effervescent and rainless wind blows off the ancient well, awakes my flaccid face and tears up those terrifying speeches, I feel my wounds, and I hear your voice calling me to be near. Behind the sorrow of love is the great sorrow of life, Underneath the icy heart lies the winter of my birth, Hope blinded by its tears and dream lost in its fears, But the saccharine aroma from your hands, it lies not in my power to remember or forget, gather or discard. To wear this world to is be wrapped in glittering mirages, To lift the earthy shadow is to revive a youth slaughtered, Yet can time grow forgiveness and gladly hand its fruit to me? When our feet stray from the morning meadow of dewdrops, when our gaze adrift and exhausted by numbered absences, Your hands still hold roses, with gleams of vivid cerise, And whenever your heart calls mine to step forward and be brave, I shiver at your impalpable sonnets and night’s appalling thunder! But Because of you, my heart is always eager to answer.