She ran after the doves,
peace be with her, peace be with her sons;
the one’s she silently protected.
She grew wings out of her blood, every strike on her grew into a new feather.
Her life was like eternal days of bad weather.
The harder he struck the deeper she sank.
Floating on a branch, breaking off the twigs one by one.
Every twig she broke off, grew into a new leaf for her sons.
One day, no twigs were left.
On that day; the doves flew over, back to her.
They gave her sons twigs of peace, only then could she finally find a place…to rest in peace.
I wrote this poem for all of the women who had lost their wings to fly, for all of those women who had to fight for their lives!
To our fallen soldiers, you’re strong…even in spirit.
Purple Empaths 