Swaying,
always swaying,
my gentle tree,
in the background,
my beloved scene,
gently, sweetly,
come by many winds,
so caressing and living,
wanting to change,
the background,
painting,
with their magic,
their love,
for me and this place,
this fragile place.
with its emerald branches,
with its ivory sky,
with its gold setting sun,
that tiptoes into the night,
the moon arises,
to decorate the ebony scene,
every passive day,
waiting just for me.
the seasons,
time, life, epochs,
seem to change,
around my swaying tree,
but it always remains the same.
that godlike divinity
that holds all my dreams,
that holds all I cherish,
that holds my past life,
that holds a person,
a sweet, gentle being,
just like that tree,
which belongs to me,
the child that I used to be.
