With its tile roof,
with its clay walls,
she is there so fragile,
offered to the summer winds.
There is in the garden
some thyme, some rosemary—
and just a little further—
Judea trees.
She did not suffer too much
from the rigors of winter.
And you can see her from the sea
at the end of the path—
There it is: my house.
Far on the horizon,
there it is: my house.
She and I wait for you.
And when you will be here,
the sky will light up,
time will stop—
how good to be in love.
And when you will be here,
happiness will blossom
in the branches of lilacs—
in the leaves of orange trees.
You will take my hand
and you will say to me, "come."
And I will say nothing,
and then I will follow you.
Yes, when you will be here,
all will start over again.
So do not tarry—
I wait only for you.
I changed the curtains.
I put on top of your piano
old photos
of past vacations.
I arranged in one corner
your papers, your books.
And I will go starting tomorrow
to wait for you on the first train.
And when you will be here,
the sky will light up,
time will stop—
how good to be in love.
And when you will be here,
happiness will blossom
in the branches of lilacs—
in the leaves of orange trees.
You will take my hand
and you will say to me, "come."
And I will say nothing,
and then I will follow you.
Yes, when you will be here,
all will start over again.
So do not tarry—
I wait only for you.
And when you will be here,
the sky will light up,
time will stop—
how good to be in love.