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The senses are my grip The song of the birds, the rustle of a shell path or the wind through the bamboo, every sound softened up in a sentiment; The smells, that emotions and reminiscences appeal of the sweetest temptations, indispensable; The eye, which is fed by the impression; Feeling with your bareback feet, a par aesthesia, without sense there is no delight; Thyme, Marjoram, without trial life is tasteless, plants give taste to the garden; Wonderful dreaming and invent, energized by the garden It is my grip, it is my inspiration.
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