My heart lies in a dying dove, with broken legs and wings,
It fell upon my windowsill, but doomed, it could not sing.
Its eyes are foggy; lacking light, gaze wistfully at heaven,
I preen its neck and feed it grain, in vain its soul won't leaven.

My darling dove, why do you sleep, and hold my heart on edge?
I swore to give you strength to live, but where's your yielded pledge?
The wind is weeping though your ears, beseeching your soul to take,
Alas, self-seeking, enamored, my plea it must partake!

I shame myself for writing script about a dying dove,
Cradled in my aching arms, yet, still, I stay in love.
A sparrow soars above our heads and tries to snap its neck,
To rid of all its dragging pain and all my hope to deck.

Piteous dove, it seem that you are less pitiful that I,
Who swallows dreams and salty tears, for you you've seen me cry.
I wish to end this verse and say that resorted is his love,
Yet fading still, and unreturned, I preen the dying dove.