Says the dove who is alone in her sorrows,
Which way to freedom? Or is such a request unbecoming,
Especially in the ears of those who sleep fitfully at night,
As readily forsaken beneath the sanguine sky,
Drenched in the blood of those who were martyrized,
The moon rising a fleshly pale and a mother bewailing her children
Who, similarly to the dove, had asked,
In which direction is freedom?