The birds fly south
at the autumns chilly end, 
but the black dove can never
return to her northern home again.
A gate is posted at the border, 
A fence to keep her out of her home.
Each year she must fly farther south.
Each year, a different wind whispers 'alone.'
If the bird could be free
to fly and to sing, 
and to return home
with a familiar wind under-wing, 
she would return each night
to rest under a single sky.
Her weary eyes could finaly rest, 
and she could forget the words 'good bye.'                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    