Upon the edges of a broken world,
Shards of glass, skies once pearled,
A single dove flies with silver crest,
Piercing her body—a splintered nest.
Her feathers pale, like moonlit grace,
Hymning a song in gentle embrace,
For the silence that once grew high,
Replaced with blood, rivers running dry.
She mourns the loss, drenched in light,
Of lullabies not drowned by fright,
Trees that held no dangling grief
Now whisper softly in disbelief.
She watches as hope dies slow,
Destruction and despair wither its glow.
"O Peace," she coos, "you've wandered far,
Lost behind the drums of war."