Who should care if a kestrel sings,
For it is not a dove.
Who should cry when a mare ensnared,
A unicorn she is not.
A virgin shorn of beauty,
Innocence no longer untouched.
The sky is pale, evenings blood red,
Stars trampled underfoot.
A romantic dies, as poets recite,
Martyrs without a cause.
And who should care if a kestrel sings,
For she is not a dove.
by Haemophiliac...
... finished 28/06/06
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