Twas a Sunday morning,

when I laid down to rest,

a poor little dove,

no longer in this world.

O, what suffering it endured,

fear and weakness too,

but all its pains were gone,

after it died in my hands.

By the grave, a soft wind blew,

bringing to me the sounds,

of a dove mourning in a tree,

not far from me,

as firefinches in the sky,

united song to say goodbye.

Now the bird's limp body,

in the dust is lying,

with earth I cover it,

and mark it with a branch.

Today its grave no more is seen,

defeated by wind and nature,

yet this sad event,

still in my memory lies.

January-February 2020