I wish you at my fantasy villa
on a fresh and sunlight high-spring day,
where, affront the vineyards and sounded waters,
you'll be carried to our noon life lore.

Washed by running children,
their rhythm of pounding alive-ing
our bright uneven world,
its afternoon dust
freshly sparking light.

Our sons and daughters,
their selves alone,
will shine in fierce memory.

And you'll bury me,
whilst our grandchildren
become emperors of space,
like flowers.

We'll love each other dead.