In the evening realm
of the green spring,
A calm river winds
like a silvery string.
The forested hills
hug the red sun.
The golden horn
gives birth
to the moon;
In a tiny hut,
the ploughman
is back from the
furrowed hills.
The nightingale
trills
her loving tale,
or a caprice,
beyond the road,
in a birch - coppice.
The sunset above
hears the songs and
it blushes as if shy.
The earth tenderly
smiles at the sky,
while she longs for
the remote stars.