My Birthplace

Look at my past; the walls grow taller.
I see a broken heart. Why? 
Is that the sound of a small caged dove singing into the stifled air?
The cold of winter swirls around.
Many steps are taken through piles of snow. 
There is a masque, open, with painted whitewashed walls, connected to the small well below its stone steps. 
I hear. I still hear my mother behind me: 'Look for the path with softer steps.'  Why is it too close? Why can I hear the clashing sound of a butcher's knife on the fresh skin of a baby lamb?
Rescue my thoughts! I shout! Was my birthplace a sanctuary, or do I imagine it with my softer, childish heart?!