The aroma of those Lilacs,
will be green...
Its buds...
Your buds...
Among the white dress
they move;
your eyes...
Dead summer cherries...
Among your ears
So they have voice;
your eyes...
And your hands,
 A moment;
suspended
in time....
And how burning they will be this year
the whiteness of your hands,
In the absence of
white orange blossoms
in the garden
In the absence....

I will give birth to you...
from the eucalyptus trees
of the garden;
From the Honeysuckle;
And his eyes...
More scorching than the sun
More scorching than lily...
and i will see you
In the spectrum...
Through the shadows of the trees...
In the absence of a leaf...
I will pick your hands...

تو را خواهم زائید....
از درختانِ اُکالیپتوسِ باغچه؛
از یاس هایِ امین الدوله؛
و چشم هایش....
داغ تر از آفتاب...
داغ تر از سوسن...
و تو را خواهم دید....
در طیف...
از میان سایه های درخت...
در غیاب یك برگ...
من دست هایت را می چینم....

I am Trying to concentrate...
I want to write a poem for you...
But I am distracted by the sweetness  of your eyes...
For your Eyes are as beautiful as the moon...
And radiant as the sun...
Your eyes can light up and warm up any room...
Now you can understand why I am distracted describing your beautiful eyes....
If you close them I will try to write a poem..
Happy Sunday Princess...

Sings a small boy whose hair is tousled by the wind,
As too the folds of his mother’s peplos and the robes of clouds,
When Greece gathers in silence like the stillness for a deposed crown,
And all Athens around, the song of eiresione for firstfruits of Autumn,
Singing boys with the olive branches of colored wool and garlanded gourds,
A fall-bird to wander the Ionic sky, foretelling of new sunrise.
How that joyful ancient voice still haunts the songbird of sunset.

Humans are by our natures
nurturers, we thrive when
giving, we take in stray animals
raise and love them like our own
children, if they by their natures
eat our sofa, crap on our carpet
we readily with charity forgive
them, clean up their mess and go on.

Is it not sad that we cannot always
extend or receive that same charity
of tolerance to or from the humans
in our lives?

Give me a spring morning, far from winter’s troubles.
On an earth axis-turned toward the life-giving sun.

Announce it with tulips and trumpets of yellow daffodils.

Watch as young, colorful, impressionist, bluebell,
dogwood, snowdrop, and primrose blossoms preen,
in the candid radiance of the abaxial springtime sun.

Enjoy new life dancing, playfully on tactile wafts of warm air.

Inhale that air, freshly fragranced by flowers in luscious bloom.

Catch the bright chirp of new life and hear the humble
buzz of bees hard at their work, spreading the pollen of life.  

Then lengthen these hopeful, verdant days, like a blessing.