Casas das Olas - House 3

not only by your golden mornings, as dreams,
was I soothed with your balsam - no!
the fruit of my harvest was your hilly cherish
I hold it on my lap and whisper lullaby of Ermelo,
embracing it in gentle suspension of the Soajo Mountain
the fruit of my harvest was your steep caress:
soft and gentile is your hillside, plenty of Minho,
enclosing in your heart Celtic mystery;
here on this rock I offer it to a Higher Power,
where winding serpentines, running constantly up the hill,
graze at this ola of Vilarinho de Souto;
here I sit and feel
a little boy setting free his poetical soul;
here I let a light wind breezing away my longing
to offer it in a intimate picnic
to the hill flowers;
here I let the sun comforting the home of my being
with white shades of cotton candy;
here I ask myself about us
in loud silence -
give me your hand, your feeling -
in this house we will rest of the windstorm track,
sheltered by the voluptuous silhouette of the mountain,
with the River Lima scenting up the valley