Sunday on the Hillside
Rain threads the green expanse in silver, each drop a whispered footnote to memory.
You and I stand beneath that vast quiet— hands half-lifted, as if to pray.
The long stone walls hold the summer's promise, moss-soft and patient against our murmurs.
Your voice comes slow, a benediction to the ache of what is gone and what remains.
Around us, the hillside breathes in gentle hymns, ferns bowing in the sacred hush of rain—
and I learn again how love can rise like dawn, even when all night's shadows press close.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem