Fifty feet above the war,
The songbird makes its flight.
It seems to be a simple dove,
White wings dusted with light.
But doves cannot see why battles are fought
In the name of peace and goodwill sought,
For fifty feet above the war,
The cries of torture still can’t be ignored.
But the pain and sorrow and grief and strife
Couldn’t possibly be resolved without loss of life.
A white speck is diving towards the ground.
The guns are cautiously set down,
And men finally dare to glance.
The bullet rain stops its deadly dance.
Oh celebrate! For a truce has been made.
And peace will reign for ‘least another decade.
Now fifty feet from the war,
Away from blood and mess and gore,
Resting beneath the olive tree,
A young soldier, too tired to feel or see,
The beautiful bird lying nobly,
Its wings tainted with crimson agony.