I'll comfort thee with serenity, do not look for me, for I am your destiny
With broken wings, the ability to fly is nothing more than a mere lie, I
cannot send messages, as the pigeons do, when my wings are no longer glued,
but instead severed and heavily weathered, I'll visit those in pain, with
nothing more to gain , do not feel ashamed , this sinner has become
persecuted just as you've been wrongly macerated, is it a striking shame ,
in which no other can claim, but only inflict a rain of pain upon my broken
wings, of which i've tried rigorously to soar, when my limbs no longer work
anymore, becoming more sore and sore, and therefore no more may I help thee,
observe what you've done to me: hunted [me] far and wide, by men with no
pride , why am I even still alive? Shot down by man, with his wicked firearm
in hand, how he knows only how to pollute the truth of how I will never be
apart of the rest of the flock of these pigeons, Whom's rage he's inflicted
upon me, a wrath so divine that keeps spitting in my mind, is this why i'm
not like the rest of the messengers ? Why must I be the one to pay the
price? Who could ever select me! The no name dove. The empty vitality.


 
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