One quiet day,
a dove of peace flew near a rose.
It whispered soft— “May I be yours? May I stay close?”
The rose replied, “Not yet, my dear,
For love must bloom as crimson here.”
Another day,
with aching heart, the bird took flight.
It pierced its breast— a wound so bright,
Its feathers stained in scarlet hue,
To prove its love was pure and true.
At that moment— (the folks say;)
the rose beheld its crimson glow.
Love awakened for the bird— but too late, for life let go.