The Pigeon lives in constant reverie.
For one pebble is enough to remind him
That once, his talons knew only rock.
But now, the White Dove claims the lost rock
With the Pigeon confined to sidewalk.
The White Dove utters no thanks to the rock.
For his feathers are too white to see acrossthe pond,Where the Pigeon's lament echoes off patheticconcrete.And as for the Pigeon,
He cannot see his very own rock calling for him.
His feathers are too dark for him to meet the rock's gaze.But closing his eyes entirely would not suffice
The reverie which keeps the Pigeon alive.
So, instead, the Pigeon's heart throbs on,
Never realizing that not all doves are white.
For one pebble is enough to remind him
That once, his talons knew only rock.
But now, the White Dove claims the lost rock
With the Pigeon confined to sidewalk.
The White Dove utters no thanks to the rock.
For his feathers are too white to see acrossthe pond,Where the Pigeon's lament echoes off patheticconcrete.And as for the Pigeon,
He cannot see his very own rock calling for him.
His feathers are too dark for him to meet the rock's gaze.But closing his eyes entirely would not suffice
The reverie which keeps the Pigeon alive.
So, instead, the Pigeon's heart throbs on,
Never realizing that not all doves are white.
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