I wish she wasn't a seasonal bird.
I wish she came to stay at once.
What shall I do, my mates?
Will I lock her inside my heart?
The decision to decide isn't mine.
After all, I wanna her freely flying,
even though it feels like my happiness
is coming and going with the wind.
What a lucky man I'd be, then,
if I could rest permanently on her wings!
Yet, as the rain falls, I cry.
The solitude of waiting is harsh:
reduces me to dust, makes me die
a bit per day, when the slowly sun rises;
a bit per night, when cold lies by my side.
But even in this poorness of soul,
there is one thing to offer
I can securely ensure:
She'll always have a warm nest,
here, into the safety of my arms.