Beneath the thick grove,
the enchanted lake slumbers,
its silvery mirror reflecting the
boastful water lilies.
Time stands still
in the magic of the
clear moonlit night, in extravagance
on the transhumant peaks.
The darkness, a black chest
lined in velvet,
is danced by shooting stars
with sleepless morning stars.
A cloud of fireflies wanders through the mist,
scattering their seeds in the forest
like nocturnal emeralds.
There is a genuine, melodious concert
; the nightingale
leaves its best note
along paths and roads.
The night deepens,
holding back the dawn
that escapes in love,
and at sunrise it surrenders.
The lark in its song warns
of a growing glow, the house of the rising sun
opens its doors to the day .
Author: Alexandra 16-4-2025