Mourning Dove

The sticks of winter’s hoary frost

Stand dead in March’s bitter cold;

The turtle doves find their soulmates

For the last spring is upon them.


Whooo-o: Whoooo: Whoo—Whoo

The turtle doves sing for their mates

The sole occupation of their

Innocent minds. All conversing

With the same melody. Not like

Our long, stronger conversations

Who must bond over complexities.


They mindlessly sing long melodies

Of whose sounds similar; I sing

Their song; hope for my turtledove,

That maybe she knows this too. And

I will have more springs to sing songs

To the innocent little birds I love.


We turtle doves gives all our cry

For the last spring there will ever be.

Cold, for the February heat.

Whooo-o: Whoooo: Whoo—Whoo.

They find love one last time, as their

Innocent loves become extinct.


Until man fixes his cold heart

I will hear this sad song every March.

On my mind will be the lowing

Of the Turtle Doves, wondering

Whether this will be the last Spring.

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