When exile sparks like a storm
ends the open plain of my calmness
when sadness like a crow,
in front of the door of my room,
stretches its wings and hovers:
I pick the frozen-winged sparrow
of my grief,
I go, I go,
till i find a child
from they rays of his eyes
I remind the sparrow of grief how to fly.
Yet my dear!
I have often seen with my eyes
grieve in this city
they come like little ducks
and take bath in the lake of your eyes.