The dove, towing her wounded wing, plummeted down onto the scorched earth where soil mixes with snow; White feathers soaked with blood permeating the ground. Near her, smoke lingers, dilapidated walls, dead bodies and shot marks everywhere, the thin olive branch is baked dry by remaining fires. Weak and fatigued, the dove moans her complaint telling of humanity’s yearning for peace through thousands of years. Chilling wind wafts the clamor for war, drowning out anti-war voices. Who will care for that wounded dove? How will the wounds be cured?
