Your love is like a frozen bird, a
feathered stone, falling from the sky.
I wish it didn't die.
It should be flying, and soaring, and
healing against the warm blaze of the
afternoon sun- weaving and diving through the
coolness of the clouds. But it's gone, and all it
can do is plummet, and kill a few more
birds on the way down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem