So beautiful is the dove that shines pure innocence onto wispy clouds beneath. Her wings soar against poisoned wind, wilting the olive branch in her sharply trimmed beak. She struggles to fly until death snatches her like the talons of a vulture and she falls quickly to the ground.
So handsome is the stoical butterfly made of blue and yellow. Its wings sway with the rhythm of the wind while it pollinates flirting flowers. It drinks smoothly the venomous nectar and soon after dissipates out of existence.
So disturbingly lovely is me of my mother’s womb and then my father’s home. I travel in faith until I fall deep into an empty pit of sorrow, and the fluttering wings of death. I drink the cup of sin and I can’t turn back because the hatred has already kissed my lips. The shovel at the hands of the world pushes soil into the pit to cover me fully now.