silent oaks

They say Saint Isabel, Queen of Portugal, Riding her white steed, Roved through her pinewood tall! Oh my husband! Tell me true! Tell me, royal oaks so grand! My Dinis! My King, my you! In whose arms do you now stand?!… The silent oaks, Of the King's vast pinewood array, Responded fearfully, We do not know!… And the Queen's sorrowful tears, Rolled down her cheeks' soft skin, Watering the weeds near, On the poor ground she stood in! Oh my dreaming pinewood dear, That my King himself did sow! Tell me where my Love veers, And if here he did go… The silent oaks, Of the King's vast pinewood array, Responded fearfully: – We do not know!… But her tears crystallized, Into many little white pearls, And transformed into a guise, Of brilliant camarinhas swirls!… Then the Queen noticed clear, A house with a light so bright… – “Who watches in here, So late in the night?!…” The silent oaks, So sad they seemed to say, Responded fearfully: – The King!…