Doride okawoga.
Sakurairo.”
(Sleep, sleep, sleep! When was our baby made? Third month, when the cherry blossoms. So the honourable face of our child is cherry-blossom coloured.)
The breezes billed and cooed upon the grasses. An imperial palm cast its rich shadow.
The affectionate sunlight made me think of a “little Spring” of the Japanese September. Everything inclined to a siesta in the yellow air.
A tropical touch is the touch of passion.
Can you fancy this is the month of December?
I cannot.
After I put the baby to its nurse, I paced around a bronze statue upon the lawn, losing myself in Greek beauty.
Then I snatched a rose.