It's not rain that I hear, but the beat of your heels.
I run to the rhythmical sound of your heels.
To my eyes there's a gleam in each print of your heels.
That fire-fly glow tells me where you have passed.

The cherry-tree seems to have burst into bloom.
Night's phantoms have fled. Thro' the town laughter peals.
The clear beat of your feet and my heart are in tune.
The surge of my blood, darling, proves you have passed.

You are graceful and tall, and like brooklets of night
Forty black plaits down your lovely back steal.
When your footsteps resound my soul burns with delight.
I know in my heart, dearest, you must have passed.

Such goodness as yours is the world's greatest prize.
I am not the first who these pangs of love feels,
Pomegranates, I know, shed blood from their sides
When they hear the staccato heartbeat of your heels.

1966