Presents

If some evening you ask

The secret of my sick heart,

To move you, I will recount

A very ancient ballad.

If you speak to me of torment,

Of disillusioned hope,

Solely for you, I will gather

Roses filled with dew.

Like flowers for the dead

That thrive in exile among the graves,

You wish to share my remorse...

I will bring you some doves.