From the vanilla-essenced sky
A little bird dropped by
With feathers white as dusted ivory
And blue crystallized eyes
That mirrored a strange human query
Then a delicate wing it curled
Revealing a scarlet wound of blood
I picked the gift from God
In the form of the little dove
And seeing the novelty of its colour
I lovingly named it Love
His advice was to take Love's care
But not to hold it tight
As clasped in palms, Love might die
Listening to Him, I held it light
Forgetting the fact, that Love could fly...
