It is five to six.
The dove is not landing
On the edge of my window
As it did for the last six months now.
I felt that the little bird
Was about to take off.
Instead of being vampirized
By the bat it used to travel with
I gave the dove fresh air
Until I couldn't breathe myself.
The bat was drinking his own blood Bringing down in his fall
The little dove and many other birds Drinking their blood
Tearing away every little feather Until the naded fowl will crash
I gave the dove fresh air
Until I couldn't breathe myself.