In the South Stands a Fine Tree, Ten Years to Grow into a Forest

Everyone has a fire burning inside them. Passersby see only the smoke.

But there is always someone, just one person, who can see that fire. Then they come over and stay with me.

In the crowd, I saw his fire. I hurried toward him,

afraid that if I was too slow, he would be swallowed by the dust of time.

I came with my passion, my indifference, my fury, my gentleness,

and my utterly unreasonable faith in love, hurrying along until I was out of breath.

Stammering, I asked him, "What's your name?"

From the moment I asked your name, everything else followed.