The mourning doves sing their songs
about 3 miles away.
Chirping of despair, beauty, angst
and then of better days.

Mourning dove, thou is free!
The world is your cage,
and thy wings may take you beyond.
So why do you speak of sorrowful pleas?

Why sing at dusk, o mourning dove?
When the day is folding in,
and the sky drips pastels on its canvas;
perhaps falling from above.

I do not know why you sing, sad sad mourning doves.
Yet I still sing along, and rather leave questions unsaid.