Convert this page to Pilot DOC FormatDisclaimer: no doves, white or otherwise, were harmed in the writing of this poem (although a few stunt-birds were bruised, but it's their job - so no animal activist e-mails please.)
The sun rose slowly, cautiously,
Watched by every eye,
As gods' hushed whispers softly drifted,
From the distant sky.
The chilling mist curled icily,
Between the shadowed pines,
As horses twitched their tails and hooves,
Upon the forest vines.
Every blade was grasped in hand,
And every bow drawn taught,
As every man prayed silently,
For mercy as they fought.
No one knew who'd found the key,
And unlocked hatred's door,
But children now, with victory dreams,
Died honouree victims of war.
Peace was never talked of,
And doves were shot for aim,
But all either side was ever told,
Was that the other was to blame.
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