It's a gentle gentle breeze
Which bothered the vineyard.
It’s a monk in the temple
Who asked me about death.
 
It’s children who crept into the garden,
They’re sneaking on heels behind me.
I could have turned around.
To look and not to notice.
 
To look into my heart’s desire,
To keep quiet  to the top of my bent.
Not to miss
My stolen childhood anymore.
 
It's a gentle gentle breeze
Which repeated beats from Bach cantata,
I caught up with myself thinking
That I have nothing to reply... to you