The Red-breasted Dove

[miyako73]

You, my mother,
sing your loud hymns,
songs of dying Spring,
and put me to sleep
in the old hammock
by the oak tree.

Let the last wind
sway my weight
to the Northeast
where the leaves
are green-yellow,
golden in the sun.

Let the same wind dry
the grains of sweat
on my battered brow,
on my gaping wounds,
on the lashes and welts
infinity can never heal.

Sing me your sobs,
laments of a singer,
while I still hear
the dead leaves
rattle and whistle
up there in the air.

Tell me that story
about a crying child
whose salty tears
are bloody pearls
or that rose bleeding
from its own thorns.

You, my mother,
sing me faint lullabies,
last songs of the dusk,
when you see a bird
bleeding while watching you
sway this empty hammock.