Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts.
It is the moonlight night of March;
the sweet smell of henna is in the air, my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers is unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
Your veil of saffron makes my eyes drunk. The jasmine wreath that you wove for me thrills my heart like praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again, some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet, useless struggles.
The love between you and me is simple as a song.
No mystery beyond the present,
no striving for the impossible,
no shadow behind the charm,
no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
We do not stray beyond all words into eternal silence, nor do we raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
What we give and give is enough.
We have not crushed joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
She stood beneath the cherry tree and smiled at the person before her.
