You plucked the wings off an innocent bird
And then said, "Now you'll know my burning hate."
Yet that dove is nothing at all absurd,
When it bears no hatred in its hurt state.
If only I were more like that sweet dove,
Then I would lack reason to clench my teeth,
I would act entirely out of love,
And on my head would rest an olive wreath.
I still have time to change my wretched heart
I have divine favor at my request,
And I take consolation in this art,
With these gifts, I am abundantly blessed.