The way of the world

Each evening I go out,

over the meadow-path.

She looks out from her summerhouse,

which stands by the pathway.

We have never questioned this,

it is just the way things are.

I don't know how it happened so,

for a long time I kiss her,

I don't ask, she doesn't say yes,

however, she also never says no.

If lips like to rest on lips,

we forbid them not, it pleases us well.

The little breeze plays with the rose,

it doesn't ask: do you love me?

The little grasses are chilled by the dew,

they don't often say: stop!

I love her, she loves me,

however neither says: I love you!