The predator or the prey.
The hawk or the dove.
Or only that busty pigeon without a tree.
Are we not all of them?
Maybe just sometimes the dove.
That bearer of kindness, that keeper of love.
And, does the hawk approach his dove—
Share your secrets with me.
I yearn to know kindness
And share with others, this tree.
And, does the dove in turn ask his hawk, on cold winter nights—
My hawk, oh my hawk, is there no end in sight?
My passion is burning, I hunger for meat.
Show me where the raw and the fresh are to eat.
The pigeon, we know, he implores both everyday.
My hawk, oh my dove.
My bearer of passion, my keeper of love.
Help me taste both, and understand this here tree.
Know the depths of the forest and the rage of beast.
The saint and the sinner, the war and the peace.
The kindness, the passion, the essence of we.