Look at the mother dove,
Teaching her fledglings to fly.
Her bittersweet love
Before the week's end she'll shove;
The babies so they'll soar.
But if not she will cry,
And with tears in each eye
She will stare down towards the ones that have fallen.
False hope will grow
For the few still in the nest.
And with patience she'll show,
So the baby birds will know;
How not to be the ones before them.
Yet without sleep or rest,
They can't do their best,
Only stumble, tumble, and trip.
The mother, ashamed, leaves
After seeing the massacre beneath her.
All the birds and trees
Alongside the unsteady breeze
Seem to all present her disgrace.
While her memories stir,
She hopes there's no répétiteur
Of the fledglings she once called her own.
The Show Must Go On:
She dances with such a grace
That only few posess.
Yet even through her blissful talent
There are many things she must repress.
She pictures a flashback's trace:
Children laugh, throwing stones
Each hit makes a bruise
As she cries the quote of sticks and bones.
Her body quickens pace,
If she doesn't hurry she'll be caught
Between insanity and reality.
She starts to repeat what's been taught.
Tears cross her face
By the time her reveries end,
All the while she twirls, questioning
Why they would never repremend.
The memory strikes her like a mace,
But she still performs on cue
To act as the righteous who lost their way;
The tale seems too true.
In time she displays her choreography's ace.
Her act spins the audience into trances.
She takes a deep breath, forgets her past,
and she dances.