Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes:
thus begins the record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March;
the sweet smell of _henna_ is in the air;
my flute lies on the earth neglected
and your garland of flowers in unfinished.
This love between you and me
is simple as a song.
Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me
thrills to my heart like praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding,
revealing and screening again;
some smiles and some little shyness,
and some sweet useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
No mystery beyond the present;
no striving for the impossible;
no shadow behind the charm;
no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent;
we do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost
to wring from it the wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.