doves nest on dirty ground
in the w h i t e of day they lounge
they're 'pure' and 'perfection' to the last
and to keep up image their sorrows away are cast
lies and trampled hearts give way to the massacre
their victims are like bait and lure
and in this mirror of p e r f e c t i o n
we see the light the doves have shunned
(but it's a secret, not to be told
a heartless whisper kept in the cold)
like moon on sun is Winter
like water on fire is bitter
the "white ones" are naught much more
than naughty children who tore out their own cores
in hopes that judgment would pass them by
for without souls they cannot fly