On my way to Jerusalem
To mourn, to cry and to beg,
The road is winding up the tree-covered mountains,
And through the pines' needled branches
The half moon sends its silver rays
Turning the black night sky above
Into a silver curtain before my crying eyes.

There I can see her, the imprisoned dove
Wearing a silver gown
Dancing between the trees
And she's spreading her wings,
But there are shackles bounding her bare feet,
She's looking at me with her dark eyes
Even though I know she is far away.

I am sitting on the floor
At the feet of the Western Wall,
I can hear the crying, as mournful prayers
Are been recited and I can still feel
The rambling of Roman Legions marching on,
Shouting triumph over rivers of blood spilled
From my slaughtered ancestors on the Temple Mount.

I praying, and I see her in between the lines,
Trying to spread her wings far away in the west
Her black hair turned into gray,
But still she's got the eagle's spirit in her,
To let her spread her wings and soar again
Above the Californian mountains.

And as I can see it trough the mist of tears in my eyes,
I feel as if the Songs of Zion are melting into one cry:
Let the dove fly free again!
This I'll ask from you, my Lord.
Please don't hide your grace from her
Hear your humbled servant's cry
Kneeling at the gates of your House.

On my way back from Jerusalem,
The moon has already set in the east,
But I can still set my mind on the silver-gowned dove,
I swear I can feel her pain pounding in my heart.
And if she could hear me tonight,
I would have sing her the Songs of Zion,
For she is too, like the Daughter of Zion, an imprisoned
dove.