LỜI BÀI HÁT
Dear my darling,
You soon will go,
and I will stay here in the cold
for another four months of snow.
If my own thought remains untold,
it’ll cease to flow.
It will not grow.
But I have no heart to tell you so,
although my hands want yours to hold.
Is time too short for me to know
if my feeling can ever unfold,
When will it show?
Will it ever glow?
Is what I feel the language of love?
I cannot speak it well enough,
so here I put it down in words
for you as such.
I hope you read my language of love.
I look forward to receiving your dove.
The little man