The turtledove

My dove, my turtledove,

is it your plaintive voice

I hear moaning

in the gathering shadows of the elm trees' branches?

Day is dying,

and your wings caressed the evening air.

Now, swaying in the tree,

your pure, solemn singing

is mingled with the murmur of the waters.

What tempests and storms

have borne you in their vast universe,

my fine proud bird, hurrying you along

with the wandering clouds?

The highest heaven is so pure.

Have the winds died down and abandoned you

in the branches of these mighty trees?

Their haughty leaves mingle with the firmament.

Your song is so sad.

What arrow has wounded you,

sweet and beauteous bird?

This is the valley of my tears.

See these tender hillsides, these unpicked flowers,

these uncertain banks leading toward the horizon.

The sun has left its rays in the sky,

a pure sky palpitating

with the flight of other invisible doves.

You sing in this tree; I weep at its roots.

Oh my dove, my turtledove,

stay with me in my valley.