To my girl

Whenever I must think of you
I think of you with sorrow,
God denied to touch your skin
and let you feel tomorrow.

Whenever I must think of you
I smile and laugh and find another
way to view, way to pursue.
I think, though: Let her be a mother!

A mother to my sons and daughters,
making priests and poets, authors.
Like a city you would be
prepared for life eternally.

Tihi! you say, and wisdom by,
exemption worn by the good bye,
you manifest yourself as pride:
No weather can destroy your hide.

Perhaps The Lord just founded you
in me to let me be anew.
But dreams may wither, dreams may pass,
your charm to me will not, alas!