A Dove’s Flight Home

A white dove flies…
Above the dale o’ silver grass,
O’er the fields of golden wheat;
Far he has to fly,
To the land of olive trees.

The place where the white dove lived,
The branch which bore his nest;
That place is lost,
The branch now broken,
So the white dove flies.

The white dove flew,
O’er vales ‘n’ hills;
His wings stretched above
Forests of chrysanthemum,
Marshes with smiling daffodils.

The dove decides to stop,
Its wings demand rest;
The dove is out of breath,
Scarlet blood flowing out
O’ its deeply hacked breast.

How the dove received its wound
We do not know;
Cuts and burns have a story of their own.
Though he blamed the world,
It was a fault his own.

See the dove flies again!
Pursuing hope, false but fair,
To reach his new lair,
The olive tree, his Eden owned,
A paradise lost, a new one found.