("Lord, bless this holy ground")

In the morning all the sunflowers turned their heads to the east.

("Where ancient spirits meet")

They swayed on the gentle wind like tired passengers, their shadows lied on the ground.

(" 'Round the old harvesters")

Corn,pumpkin and potato  
harvested all day long, till the sun hides behind the hills.

("With a ribbon to tie our souls")

Now the fields are empty and the rusty sickle is hung on the wall.

("And to bind love in our hearts")

*But the melody goes on and on.
-The warm harvest song from my childhood is still ringing in my ears at night.

Concealed worlds,
footsteps,
the smell of burning wax.
Why am I here?
Why do I breath?
I can see lanterns in
the darkness.
Lanterns of life.
Young are those whose candle
is shining brightly,
but old are those whose candle is put out long ago.
But what about my lantern?
-Lost forever, as my soul is wrapped
in iron chains.
I need a saviour before i become my worst enemy,
but i don't want to be... A murderer!

Mmmmmm...
At dusk when the
moonflowers show their
faces to the silver stars.

Mmmmmm...
At dawn when the
monflowers hide their
faces from the golden sun.

Mmmmmm...
You will find me
under the shadow of the willows,
dreaming of him as he recites
verses of poetry to me.

Mmmmmm....

How I adore the
poetic verses of the moon.
Not the sun,
Not the stars,
but only my moon.

From a balcony of clouds
above me, the moon whispers
and throws a star.
Ah, but the moon shines as twice
as bright as the star it throws.

I would fly to heaven
just to be with my moon,
Where the silver beams
would color my hair white.

Oh, what a poem would I write
if I could make the moon
Mine, all mine ...

Little nightingale,
wings of white and gold.
Little nightingale,
singing gay and bold.
Fly away, far from your iron cage.
Fly away, up in the North sky.
One day you will come back,
singing your last requiem to me,
For I shall be there to hear no more.
   You are very brave,
   and you are very free,
So do not fall into sorrow,
do not fall into eternal repose.
But until then...
  - Sing, oh sing,
My sweetest nightingale
high above my broken baroque grave

The wild roses grew,
all upon the wooden
garden fence, painted white.
Gentle autumn breezes blew
and stirred the
emerald-green leaves.
The melancholy fragrance
was spread in the air,
as I sat and watched
the red petals submit
to the deadly season.
So i sang them a lullaby,
to fall in a summer dream,
And peacefully wilt
with no sorrow,
with no tears...

Dewdrops on
the meadow
reflect memories
to the roses.
Her sighs painted
the sky of the North
as the church bells
echo in the tall trees*

*,, Oh, Anamaria,
leave your floral meadows.
And watch the reckless
waves trying to escape the sea.
Listen....
They sob for you lover,
his soul lost at sea ,,

Two red cherries
under the twinkle
of a fading star,
They whisper together...*

*,, She was wearing
a pocket watch,
long chain
made of stars,
and the clock
made of the moon.

Alas, he never came,
But she is still up there
in the diamond sky,
Waiting... ,,

In a midnight
whispered by spring,
I lingered to hear
the symphony
of wild roses
beyond the
wayward pines.
But now
I paint them
in marine colours
to send them
to drift among
the reckless waves,
seducing the young sailors...