The Dove's Flight
Flying over barren lands
Dried grass, withered roots,
Not a single tree stands
Even in calm weather
Wind pushes heavily
On weary feathers
The dove vows to be braver
But with the weight of the sky
Its wings start to waver
Its eyes search the earth
This bare, lifeless expanse
Lacking its prior glory and worth
Just then, a whisper of green—
Could it be . . . a tree?
Albeit a sapling, scrawny and lean
The dove soars down, coming near
As an olive tree emerges into view,
Defying the dry ground, it perseveres
The tree’s arms reach out, inviting a guest
To land in its branches—
Gratefully, the dove arrives,
Having found, at last, a way of rest.
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