Let me draw,
If I had the hand of a merciful God I would draw the first deep wrinkle on the forehead of every newborn babe.
But that would be the hand of a careless God, for all the wisdom gained
Is merely a Brocken Spectre.

So let there be a history discarded of pain
And tattoos sown by the hand of a farmer onto the delicate skin of this pigeon.
Keep him, feed him,
He will remember you to me.   Let him fly home when you think of me,

And his wings will bring me back.