In this little garden of my own, silence becomes my language;
with it, I breathe, I sigh, I think . . .
And when I look up, I see trees — trees, who know my heart.
Seeing them waving their hands over my head,
I think they’re saying, I know. I know.
In this little garden of my own, silence becomes my language;
with it, I breathe, I sigh, I think . . .
And when I look up, I see trees — trees, who know my heart.
Seeing them waving their hands over my head,
I think they’re saying, I know. I know.
