Under the rays of the bright red setting sun,
the four gilded houses atop the hill
look at each other from their dark windows and are silent.
The leaves of the trees speak to the wind
when the sun fades behind the mountain,
the nightingales sing of lost loves,
when the sweet glimmer of the waters
falling from the mountain spring ceases,
the houses light up their windows
when darkness erases the landscape.
The last illusion endures
in the dim light of the windows, deceiving
those who linger to dream
of the sun even behind the mountain
and hope that the darkness will not return
with its cloak of solitude and pain.
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