The Mourning Dove

 The Mourning Dove 

They called him the Mourner, The Turtle Dove-

The one who cries at nights, solemn, with no one above-

But who would’ve ever dwelled upon why his call was so sad? 

Aloof, lonely, looking for the one who could make him glad-

Who, what, could really mend such a heart that doesn’t know what’s to love? 

All, but this beautiful big-hearted dove-

Who knows no soul, no other to fulfil thee-

Who is blinded by a silent heartthrob who roams the nights free-

Who leaves the Mourning Dove to wallow in hopelessness of finding a mate with guarantee-

No wonder we all dwell upon his own call-

So sad, so alone, with eyes to bawl-

Oh, the End is near-

With nothing ever so eternal,  

Except for the Mourning Dove’s silent heartthrob’s cheating smile from ear to ear-

Oh, the End is near- 

For, in the end... 

They called him the Mourner, the Turtle Dove-

The one who cries at nights, solemn with no one above-

The first of the ones who, with a broken soul 

Who left this distinct, melancholic call to the ones below, 

To imitate with a broken soul 

Of searching for love, left, right, below and above 

To leave the copies of such a sad tune for the generations to come 

For, in the end... 

They called him the Mourner, the Turtle Dove.