One after another level I climb
As if tracing the sharp footsteps of old age.
Suddenly, a friend from the past appears.
He has wavy hair and wings like an angel,
His body is fine and on his head is a crown of thorns;
He walks slowly and his voice resembles that of a shepherd.
We meet on top of a hill, and look down below:
The month of July reflects off the curving road.
In the distance are bluish clusters of pine trees,
Rooftops of homes and a church that seems to hang mid-air.