Desperately, the dove raises its wings,
Using its last remaining strength to sing
A mournful swan song before it is laid to rest,
Enchanting all the creatures of the forest.
There is a beautiful individuality in the light of a life,
But there is nothing but carnage in the gleam of a knife.
A hunter trapping game in a nearby wood,
Listened to the ballad, and well he understood,
The message encoded within the dove song,
We are all children of our Mother Earth, and we all belong.
The hunter cremated the dove so it could fly again,
Little did the hunter know that the dove still remained.
This time in a form among alphas of the food chain,
Still hesitant to devour flesh and cause an ounce of pain.
The hunter sang the dove song in a time where peace was rare,
He saw armies would war needlessly over a golden chair.
He lived his life simply and told others the tale,
The ballad of the mourning dove he would so softly wail.
With the creatures of the forest singing to that tune,
And one particular wolf howling it to the full moon.