Your love is a summer flower drawn by a dreamy lover, gathering baskets of longing, carrying them on a horse's back, and sending them every morning toward your blue eyes.
Your love is a secret, a magical tale that resides on distant islands within me that only you can touch.
Your love is the joy of the morning. When it opens its eyelids, I melt into its breath like a wet bird, and I sail in your eyes without a boat toward oases of warmth where secret springs lurk.
Your love is a wild tale, a journey into the depths of the soul, upon whose branches lie colorful birds. I wish you could smell its captivating fragrance.  Your love is a secret, something I can't tell you.

I am the remains of a flower in a thirsty garden. I stretch my hand toward your flowing river, counting the moments of despair that fill me with a strange solitude that places me on a forgotten cliff.
I am here waiting for you, waiting for your rain; waiting for your call without hope or a whisper. I have nothing but this unforgettable solitude. Nothing but remains drowning in a strange silence and a strange distance.
Yes, I am the remains of a forgotten story. When I wake up in the hands of longing, I recite all the passionate poems. How I wish you would shine upon the remains of my thirsty fields. How I wish you would feel me one day, to touch with your hand what remains of me.

Come closer to me, sit here, under this tree, here is a bird singing and a pink flower that never lies. Come, reach out and shake my hand. Come closer to me, and remove all the leaves of distance and gray veils. Come, let's sing of love, and write a poem on this beautiful night. Our hearts are warm and full of dreams. Come and sit; don't stay standing, for my eyes are tired from tears and my heart is tired of waiting. Come, warm yourself with tales of love, for our souls are pure rivers that never know cold. Come closer to me, let's write a new story.

I know you're an illusion, and I'm happy with this illusion, and that's enough for me.
I know you're something impossible, and I like to strive for you, even though you're something impossible. How happy that makes me.
I know you're a distant dream, but believe me, I'm grateful to be living this distant dream.
I've become so convinced that you're an illusion that I've given my mind and reality a vacation. I'm like the ancient sages, but I've given my wisdom an early retirement because I'm truly happy with this magical illusion.
I've become so convinced that there's no way to your blue eyes, your charming smile, or your luminous face. I've become certain of that, and yet I'm immersed in the dazzling joy of your existence.
I know you're an illusion, and what a beautiful illusion you are.

You and I are from there; from the world of beautiful hearts where we meet the truth, and lines that know nothing but honesty and purity.
You and I are a story of silver snow soaring in a wide space without falsehood.
You and I are a delicate hand and delicate lips in a sky far from the falseness and pallor of my city.
You and I are a very white voice, a very fragrant flower, and a very delicate river whose beginnings are from your blue eyes.
You and I are a love story, where your fragrance is endless, your light is endless, and your tenderness is endless.

Hold me close, your hands soft like a flower touched by a bright morning. They are a ray of sunshine, yet they are immersed in silence. Their eyes are closed, not wanting to see me.
Hold me close in the evening alleys, to erase this vast estrangement in my soul. There is nothing here but the sound of the wind, quietly stealing my joy.
Hold me close, the roads and windows like bracelets, speaking to me in a pale voice that no longer knows how to deal with its delicate suffering. I no longer know how to travel, and I don't want to.
I just want you to hold me close. Only you.

With you, I live in happiness, for your smile is something indescribable and unbelievable, planting in my heart every hope that never fades. With you, I've become more beautiful, for your blue eyes have drawn every cheerful color and every tender story on my face.
Only with you, I'm sweeter, for your lips are made of honey, like pink grapes. I can't tell you how I dream about them.
With you, I travel to magical cities, live magical tales, and live in magical tents that fill my heart with joy and happiness. With you, I've become purer. You're something that transforms everything around you into purity. Only with you, I feel myself, and I feel contained, fulfilled, and sufficient. Only with you, I want nothing else.