Doves
An arrow
clutched between its talons,
A bomb
strapped across its chest.
The poor
dove brings forth battalions,
And then is
sent to kill all off the rest.
A skull
adorns the poor dove’s brow,
And fire
spreads across its feathers.
We shall not
break our sacred vows,
To bring
destruction with the weather.
Embers eat
the poor dove alive,
As its
conscious burns to ashes.
Ashes of doves
do make most cry,
For the end
of war that to Earth crashes.
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