There is a field, br a land stained with memories, br scattered like stardust, br the tears of the night sky, br as they reflect their eternal mysteries br on Wivenhoe’s vein of the earth. br br There is a river too, br the mirror of that sky, br peaceful and content br like an infant’s face, br sleeping her innocence br in the happiness of her mother. br br And there is a village br dressed in colour and antiquity br like the tunes of an old piano br in a duet with the lazy expressions br of the afternoon sunbeams br that flirt with the clouds’ sadness. br br And in this feast of sighs br that shape the souls of the butterflies, br a spirit is wandering in beauty: br br Fragile, yet eternal, br like the field that is caressing her feet. br br Strong, yet so calm, br like the river that is painting her eyes, br br Warm, yet so distant, br like the village that is singing to her smile. br br In the essence of the wine... br In the surprise of the evening rain... br In the lies of the flowers... br In the summer of my life...