Hawks and Doves

What furrowed brow now looks down upon this place, where hawks and doves dwell in peace? What wrenched heart beats to the drum of such turmoil yet finds rhythm in this breeze? When all men find this place where will I go? For these streams are my streams, these cloven hills shine lavender for my eyes. I have harnessed all to my end, but now with the passing of time more come. I have dressed in beauty and guarded sanctity with all the vigour and strength my aging limbs muster. But I grow weak. Do I learn to trust that all who walk abroad will keep it as it was? Or do I lament knowing change will come? Do I leave and live my last days asunder where my eyes can not whiteness the breaking? Or do I stay and hold my hand to the wind and with my last strength turn them away? You knew, but never did you say.