The Wounded

Mystique420

Eyes that stream with tears of love....
this is the tale of the wounded dove...

A voice came across the waters.
The whispers heard in my every dream.
The silent footsteps lightly near,
they could be sensed upon the stream.

The so soft waves, brilliant caress,
lightly, tenderly washed over me.
I closed my eyes and let the vision be.
I set my heart, like a rivulet, free.

I welcomed the love, the sunlight,
that crowned my every day.
It released my soul, my passion.
It tore my doubts and threw them away.

My little loving dove happily rose.
In adoration, she opened her pretty wing.
She flew straight to his open window
and brought with her the jewels of spring.

O! How she sang her heart in glee,
like a rose's fresh blossoming bud,
of all her dreams and passionate desires,
of the love that ran warm through her blood.

And with his charm, he captured her.
My sweet little dove in his arms was bound;
and she fell into a passionate swoon
like a leaf upon the ground.

O! And how he embraced her, kissed her,
lay beside her where she fell.
Her love was reflected in his eyes -
three words they both knew well.

Yet, the lonely sparrow looked from above.
There was hatred and jealousy in his eye;
and he thought to himself of all the ways
to snatch her away and make her cry.

My little loving dove, how innocent and pure.
She had no thoughts but of happy years.
She didn't know her wings would be broken,
didn't know that she'd drown in tears.

The sparrow unleashed his sadness,
made his entrance exalted and grand.
He plucked the bud from its root,
snatched it, lifeless, in his hand.

He dropped her, threw her down,
stomped her heart upon the ground.
Trampled and broke her pretty wings;
then weeping, looked around.

He couldn't understand his feelings
as he looked at her lying there;
and his heart filled with guilt
for the way he handled her without care.

And she could only weep, so forgiving,
she knew he didn't mean to hurt her so.
Her pale wings, the feathers torn apart,
could not lift her to freedom, unable to go.

She stretched her heart out in kindness,
gave him the compassion which loving brings;
and behind her tears, she gave him a smile,
then tried to bravely lift her wings.

"It doesn't matter," he heard her purl,
"I'll be alright, don't you worry."
This made him feel worse, full of blame;
and he wanted to fly away in a hurry.

"It's okay if you need to go," she sang.
"I hope you find your happiness and love."
But his heart within him was so heavy,
and he could not lift himself above.

The river wearing her sparkling robe
drifted her tears into his soul.
The sparrow no longer felt worthy,
no longer felt that his heart was whole.

And tragic are the sparrow lies
and the hurts that break a love,
the lonely hands of nothingness
that leave a wounded dove.