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  • Annette Austin


A dove soars into the sky

Blue, filed with stillness,

Flapping its majestic wings

Then turns into trouble,

A black cloud, a dark force

Moves toward it,

Hatred emanates from its mouth

A force unseen, dripping malevolence,

The dove knows it will be maimed

Tries to turn around,

Wants to screech its fright

Not wanting to be hurt,

Finding its wings have turned to stone,

The bird squawks for help

No one is coming,

It is all alone.

Flames shoot out

The dove is hit,

As it falls to the ground

Thousands shout, their screams of terror,

Can be heard all around

They wait for help, for food, for shelter

Will it come? No one is sure.

The dove flaps its wings one last time

Takes its last breath on Earth,

Surveys the ground it once walked

Almost clean, so unobserved.

One day, the dove will rise

Above the clouds, will soar one more,

Olive branch in its mouth

No hatred, no rancour,

Sun will shine

On all of us,

Vengeance is not the cure.

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