and in The Stillness




The Wrens,  of Ever

(  Feather,  Light  )






in this Meadow,

lay the Arrows by the score,

broken,  pointless,  without Purpose,

      as are All,  the Tools of War . . .

nEver Again will The Eyes

of Men,  stare down those

shafts with Hate,  for Bow

and Quiver,  lie in A River,

      known by name,  as Fate . . .

still,  they lie,  nEver to fly,

to pierce the Heart of son

and lover,  nor foul the Air,

in fiery glare,  to singe the

      tears,  of wife and mother . . .

’ Lo,  Come What May,  is

Here,  today,  to lay these

Arrows to rest,  for in The

Sky,  instead will fly,  The

               Wings,  of Love’s

                                    Bequest . . .



Book III,  The Diamond ( Third Beginning ) The Ninth DoveTale – The Shield of Courage


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