My bird has got late,
even though I prayed every day.
Too much fog on its flight path,
it had to make a huge detour.
My bird has come home,
yet it had no gift for me.
The stupid twat must have dropped it
I'm going to check on the roof.
In the mean time I muse about that kind of person
who would let the maiden die out inside me.
This little token for my being to become whole,
the only thing I would like
is that it looked like you.
The bells have ringed early
I rushed into the courtyard
but my belly was flat:
they had played a trick on me.
In the mean time I muse about that kind of person
who would let the maiden die out inside me.
This little token for my being to become whole,
the only thing I would like
is that it looked like you.
I overturned every single stone,
I searched the whole house,
and (I found) on my doorstep
the germ of a rose.
I slipped it under my pillow,
for it to bloom, to brood.
I shut my eyes so tight,
crossed my fingers hard enough
to break my knuckles.
I appealed to the gods, heavens
and angels for me to find
when I wake up, under the cotton bed
a little you.
In the mean time I muse about that kind of person
who would let the maiden die out inside me
to create a mother
and make me whole.
The only thing I would like
is that it looked like you.
The only thing I would like
is that it looked like you.