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The Tale Of The Dove
The Dove perches in a rusted cage
By the musty window,
once white feathers dirtied and grey.
The Man awakens and slinks down into
a nearby chair, his favorite.
He twirls a feather in his calloused hands-
too strong, too large, to treat it with care.
The Macaw lights down upon windowsill,
cawing and squawing shrill-
tapping the glass pane facing the Dove,
the Dove offers a weary ashen reply.
Flapping her wings, sagged and shorn.
The hands that cut were too burly,
too big, too strong.
The Man waggles the...