Garden Of May
Martin Höfert
We met under the cherry tree
On a sunday, quarter past three
Over the rainbow, across the hayfield to the right
Onwards to the other side
The boy and me, in the garden of may
In the garden of my younger days
Dreams learned to fly
Through my veins, elation flows
In the meadow, the wild roses grow
I perceived this place as my longed for heaven
I sensed myself, phantasy rouse, in high spirits we douse
The boy and me, in the garden of may
In the garden of my younger days
Dreams learned to fly