La Torcacita
Ginette Acevedo
The Mourning Dove
At her closed window,
very softly she called,
a mourning dove,
injured, moaned.
He was a sleeping poet,
never sang to love,
to that mourning dove,
healing her wound, she gave her love.
Love me, ungrateful mourning dove,
you taught me to love
and to the one who hurt you maliciously in the soul,
today you have to forget.
Love me, ungrateful mourning dove,
your love went north,
forget that male dove,
who doesn't deserve your heart,
poor sick dove,
you are dying of loneliness.
At the flowery window,
she weaved her sorrow,
from looking at the hills so much,
her eyes were dying.
There was never so much sadness,
she forgot her song,
poor mourning dove,
there is no remedy for the love sickness.
Love me, ungrateful mourning dove,
you taught me to love
and to the one who hurt you maliciously in the soul,
today you have to forget.
Love me, ungrateful mourning dove,
your love went north,
forget that male dove,
who doesn't deserve your heart,
poor sick dove,
you are dying of loneliness.
Poor sick dove,
you are dying of loneliness.
