Dreams

The night is as sweet as a woman,

and the old trees dream under the golden moon.

They didn't know how to call to the one who just passed,

her head crowned with pearls,

now and forever distraught.

All have passed now,

the frail, the foolish,

sowing their laughter in the sparse grass,

breezes brushing

the flowering hips' charming caress.

Alas! Only a white shiver remains of all this.

The old trees weep their gilded leaves

under the golden moon.

No more will anyone dedicate to them

proud golden helms.

Now and forever tarnished,

the knights are dead

on the Grail quest.

The night is sweet as a woman.

Hands seem to stroke the souls,

such foolish, frail hands,

in the days when swords sang for them!

Strange sighs rise under the trees.

My soul they are from an old dream that holds you.