I carry large stones across the first landscape
In my hands there is fire, the gift of the moon
My eyes are the birthplace of water,
My journey begins in the happiness of rain.
My throat is an orchard
My childhood is an apple there.
My grandparents are singing
Their own parents are born from that song
And the generations that are yet to come
Are waiting for a sign from them.
My body is a green hillside
Where love has made its home
In a stone cottage among the apple trees
I swallow a fortune in memories
The door is open. Memory becomes a promise.
I swallow the rain and moon.
My throat is an orchard
Your childhood is an apple there.