The Dove

Oh, gentle dove which is my heart,

fly not to summer's bittersweet remembrance

lest my ribs which doth protect thee,

shatter with earthquakes of sobbing.

 

Oh, dear dove,

thou art but a fragile freedom

whose wings doth soar on the winds of love.

But when the winds doth cease,

 

Nothing stops thy plummeting fall.

Why didst we love the torrents 

of pain?

Whose sparrow-like frame did 

 

Shake with memories of loss and

war.

Fly not now, my sweet little dove, 

summer's remembrance is still a bittersweet cruelty.