The dove, towing her wounded wing,
plummeted down onto the scorched earth
where soil mixes with snow;
White feathers soaked with blood
permeating the ground.
Near her, smoke lingers,
dilapidated walls, dead bodies
and shot marks everywhere,
the thin olive branch
is baked dry by remaining fires.
Weak and fatigued,
the dove moans her complaint
telling of humanity’s
yearning for peace
through thousands of years.
Chilling wind wafts the
clamor for war,
drowning out anti-war voices.
Who will care for that wounded dove?
How will the wounds be cured?