The sweet scent of blood

Could I be a crying sky? Not a poet, just a tear

Beautiful myrtle under the moon’s glow grows

My heart was like a mosaic

Paint me with a brush held in your lips

He painted Me with a brush held in his lips

A beautiful costume from the ball, now laid aside

Like a swallow, cradled softly by the whispers of dark waves

As long as the Jewish Heart beats deep inside

I love your red eyelids

Love me so fiercely that the Golden Nightingale