Dov, you brought back the merchants trading tales, the grandmothers whispering buba mayses, brought back so many fairy tales told by the stove, warming so many generations. If all the storytellers are silent, who can blame them?
Even now, the wonder child sheds tears in her sleep-- how will the prince vault over the silence and recover the shining jewel that could save her? And the boy awaiting the bird of happiness is still stranded in the desert, with no hint of how to find his way to Jerusalem.
Dov, the princess trapped in the golden mountain needs the spell you learned from a magic oud, the winds need someone who knows their language, the storytellers are parched for the waters of eternal life. It was you who recovered the golden dove we lost in the desert, and now we have lost you.