In the hush of dawn, the world beneath slumber’s veil,
A lone dove perches, a silhouette against the pale sky,
Its feathers, a soft tumult, tousled by the whispering wind,
It calls for peace, a sound like a sigh, a wish on the breeze.
It seeks the olive branch, over lands scarred by echoes of gunfire,
Where the symphony of life is muffled by the drumming of war,
Soaring through the vast canvas above, a harbinger of hope,
Yet it finds hearts sealed, dreams scattered like leaves in autumn.
Reflecting in the still waters, the dove peers into the abyss,
Longing for a ripple of tranquility in the liquid glass.
But the surface shivers with the memories of tears fallen,
And peace, like the morning mist, dissolves with its touch.
The cry of the dove, a melody that pierces the silence of awakening,
A lament for the elusive peace, for the softness of innocence lost.
In the quiet corners of the soul, where silent battles rage,
The dove seeks harmony, in a world torn, a world seeking solace.
Listen to the doves, their cries that weave through the air,
For a world where love’s embrace is the sovereign balm.
May their tears, like rain, wash away the stains of anguish,
And herald a time when peace blooms, unfettered and whole.
Slow Mover 