The Bird Who Carried Peace

High upon the morning sky,
A gentle bird begins to fly.
Wings of silver, soft and wide,
She glides with truth the winds can’t hide.
Her song is not of fear or dread,
But whispers where the wounded bled.
She carries hope in every breath,
A melody that conquers death.

The forest wakes with trembling light,
The bird ascends, her soul alight.
She does not know of sharpened steel,
Of hunters waiting for their meal.
She only knows the endless air,
The freedom born from flying there.
Each feather is a quiet prayer,
That peace may bloom, that love may care.

She sees the rivers, bending blue,
Reflecting skies both kind and true.
She dips her wings in cooling streams,
And lifts the day with tender dreams.
The children laugh, the elders smile,
For songs like hers can heal awhile.
Her music lingers, pure, profound,
A healing gift in every sound.

But shadows wait beneath the trees,
With hearts unsoftened by the pleas.
They raise their bows, they set their aim,
For them, her flight is but a game.
Yet do they know, the lives they take
Are threads of peace they choose to break?
For in her breast a secret lies,
The wisdom older than the skies.

“Oh hunter, hear my fragile song,
The earth has held your hands too long.
Not every creature born to land
Was made to perish by your hand.
I am the voice of winds that weave,
The reason mothers learn to grieve.
The truth that silence cannot hide,
The cost when mercy is denied.”

The bird sings on, her notes ascend,
A plea for hearts to learn, to mend.
She tells the hawk, the crow, the dove,
That life was shaped by more than love—
By balance deep, by sacred ties,
By starlit nights and dawning skies.
No arrow loosed, no bullet fired,
Can kill the peace her soul inspired.

And in the fields, the children run,
They lift their arms into the sun.
“Sing on, dear bird!” their voices cheer,
“We want your gentle song to hear.
The world is harsh, but you are kind,
A promise kept for humankind.
We’ll guard you now, we’ll guard your nest,
For peace is born when love is blessed.”

The hunters lower tools of death,
And pause to take a humbled breath.
For in her eyes they see a flame,
A life beyond the endless game.
What is the worth of fleeting pride,
When songs of peace are pushed aside?
What victory lies in feathers torn,
When silence leaves the earth forlorn?

And so the bird ascends again,
Above the hills, beyond the glen.
Her song becomes a silver thread,
That weaves through hearts where fear has bled.
Each note a bridge, each chord a plea,
That men may live in harmony.
The echo drifts through fields of grain,
And plants compassion in the brain.

If ever you should hear her song,
Remember what has gone so wrong.
The forests burn, the rivers dry,
When greed commands and love must die.
But still she soars, with endless grace,
A feathered hope for every place.
She is the dream we dare not lose,
A voice of peace the world must choose.

So let her fly, don’t strike her down,
Don’t stain her wings with crimson brown.
For in her breast a lantern glows,
That only peace and kindness knows.
Her nest is built of gentler things—
Of quiet prayers, of whispered wings.
And when she sings, the earth will hear,
That love is stronger than all fear.

High above the morning sky,
She carries truth as years go by.
No hunter’s aim, no cruel deceit,
Can still the song that makes us meet.
She is the bird who would not cease,
The endless hymn, the gift of peace.
Her wings remind both land and sea:
Life blooms when left in harmony.