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

Washed by running children,
their rhythm of pounding
living our bright uneven world,
its afternoon dust
fresh spark 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.