All the joys of my life are in the cherry tree, in the shaking of a single yellow leaf,
In the clouds from the south that come scudding along on the open air,
In hydrangea blooms that the sun shies on:
It is the slight sheen on the water in the channel,
The opulent scent of the muck heap in spring,
The sing-song calling of the Brent geese on the mudflats.
But it is also mother's carefree youth as they skate along the waterway together in the moonlight,
It is father's joy when the verses of one of the poets gladden his heart.
It is the fragile happiness of grandpa and grandma as, hand in hand, they welcome spring.
Oh, and perhaps it is partly the dream of the devout one
When he sees the angels open wide their white wings.