The sore land of the valley has stolen the colour from the soaring dove.
And I found it in a little child’s flower bed,
Growing amidst the aching apple orchard.
Oh Dear! How the dawn bowed when it gazed upon the blemishes of these Lilies.
The red was a shy colour compared to those purples and yellows.
I have seen the little girl with tiny hands water her garden of solace,
Every time other innocents ran away to the streets.
How she lost her veil in the surge to water her beloveds!
And how she caresses the scarred petals!
She is a mother already,
Looking after the wounds of her child.
She’s kept the belongings of the poor Dove well.
Tell the wailing bird,
To retrieve her lost leaf here
And to color herself again.
Between the blood red, lifeless apples
And the soulful lilies.
Tell her, the little girl cradles her peace
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