The Mourning Dove

They called him the Mourner, The Turtle Dove-
The one who cries at nights, solemn, with no one above-
But who would’ve ever dwelled upon why his call was so sad? 
Aloof, lonely, looking for the one who could make him glad-
Who, what, could really mend such a heart that doesn’t know what’s to love? 
All, but this beautiful big-hearted dove-
Who knows no soul, no other to fulfil thee-
Who is blinded by a silent heartthrob who roams the nights free-
Who leaves the Mourning Dove to wallow in hopelessness of finding a mate with guarantee-
No wonder we all dwell upon his own call-
So sad, so alone, with eyes to bawl-
Oh, the End is near-
With nothing ever so eternal,  
Except for the Mourning Dove’s silent heartthrob’s cheating smile from ear to ear-
Oh, the End is near- 
For, in the end... 
They called him the Mourner, the Turtle Dove-
The one who cries at nights, solemn with no one above-
The first of the ones who, with a broken soul 
Who left this distinct, melancholic call to the ones below, 
To imitate with a broken soul 
Of searching for love, left, right, below and above 
To leave the copies of such a sad tune for the generations to come 
For, in the end... 
They called him the Mourner, the Turtle Dove.