COME MOTHER TO REST
Come, mother, to rest from all your work
to the shady garden that I cultivated in my dreams,
in the light of fireflies and golden beetles
and the magical help of those little beings,
the gnomes, who dress in scarlet suits
and they sprout when the first stars shine,
who wear shoes with silver buckles
without leaving in the moss the mark of his footprints.
They will sing for you the cicada and the cricket,
hidden among ivy, wisteria or jasmine.
And with the dead leaves we will make a castle
with crenellated walls in gold and yellow,
until it falls over the gardens
(in as much the head on my shoulder inclines).
Come, mother, to rest from all your work
to the shady garden that I cultivated in my dreams,
in the light of fireflies and golden beetles
and the magical help of those little beings,
the gnomes, who dress in scarlet suits
and they sprout when the first stars shine,
who wear shoes with silver buckles
without leaving in the moss the mark of his footprints.
They will sing for you the cicada and the cricket,
hidden among ivy, wisteria or jasmine.
And with the dead leaves we will make a castle
with crenellated walls in gold and yellow,
until it falls over the gardens
(in as much the head on my shoulder inclines).
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