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.