The Dove, it flew,
Passed those it knew
Whom lived to hunt its hide.
Creatures give chase,
Each with great haste,
The Dove, it lost its stride.
It meets its end.
It missed the bend.
They hear the fledglings cry.
They need not chase,
They meet the base,
And the Dove loses its pride.

With the Dove dead,
Its fledglings fed,
To creatures of the night,
Covered in red
They rest their heads
Completely in delight.
Its spirit fled
By death it’s led
A story not so bright.
Its legacy said,
And sin it’s shed,
The Dove had lost the fight.