there was once
a little dove,
who turned her head
and fell in love.

and in just that–
a sudden start–
a match was made,
he’d won her heart.

the dove, she took
a little rest.
time to tend,
time to nest.

time to sing,
and time to prune,
time to find
her perfect tune.

the first note rings,
she coos the line,
“my eyes met his,
and his met mine.

we danced,
we shined,
we took delight
when evening led
to morning light.

as one’s just one,
but a pair two,
to all who ask,
our love is true.”

but no, oh no!
dear little dove,
true not was he
at all to love.

virtue in song,
beauty in coo,
to be true love
there must be true.

our dove, he left,
and why? we know
this one, he had
still seeds to sow.

yet still this song
our dove did coo,
weeping with tears
of naught he knew.

poor little dove,
knew not that she
lived one last song,
this coo for he.

so sang she did,
coo through the wood.
and sang she did,
’til naught she could.

our dove, alone,
sang her last note.
and love, forlorn,
her heart, it broke.

our little dove,
fell limp off tree.
dead on the ground,
yet was now free.


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