The sticks of winter’s hoary frost
Stand dead in March’s bitter cold;
The turtle doves find their soulmates
For the last spring is upon them.
Whooo-o: Whoooo: Whoo—Whoo
The turtle doves sing for their mates
The sole occupation of their
Innocent minds. All conversing
With the same melody. Not like
Our long, stronger conversations
Who must bond over complexities.
They mindlessly sing long melodies
Of whose sounds similar; I sing
Their song; hope for my turtledove,
That maybe she knows this too. And
I will have more springs to sing songs
To the innocent little birds I love.
We turtle doves gives all our cry
For the last spring there will ever be.
Cold, for the February heat.
Whooo-o: Whoooo: Whoo—Whoo.
They find love one last time, as their
Innocent loves become extinct.
Until man fixes his cold heart
I will hear this sad song every March.
On my mind will be the lowing
Of the Turtle Doves, wondering
Whether this will be the last Spring.