The Dove

In springs,
shall i see thou in art,
soaring the majestic sky,
as thee glance upon the world,
and shall i hear,
thy enchanting chirps,
amongst the voices of love.

Sweet be the beauty seems,
and nay of words be there to describe,
as for only see hearts unto hearts,
skin deep,
of choices that reflects our soul,
be it good,
nor out of control.

Speak not of ill of thyself,
nor should others speak unto,
be grateful as for life only once,
be may some thought,
more lives be it, differ,
if the same only occur,
in the colour of none other.

Fly, as high as the sky could reach you,
but forget not, the ground under,
imagine the world in its place, shudder,
still ne'er deny of the upcoming thunder.

Shall some be love,
nor be hate,
but be thou self,
for it is already great.