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The Dove
March 21, 2024
Fire and fervor,
The air smells of murder.
Singing and screaming,
My head is reeling.
Amidst the plumes of smoke
On which You and I will choke,
Out the corner of my eye I see
A dove land upon an olive tree.
As pure and white as first snow,
The dove does not know to go.
You and I scream and beg and cry,
But the dove will Still die.
Turning, burning,
Stomach churning.
War has left no room for yearning.
What once was belief and glimmers of hope
Now combusts and makes the smoke.
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