Is There No Room for Peaceful Conclaves Any More?

I met a metaphor the other day coming at me with feathered arms,
A peaceful metaphor with a sad look of despair.
My metaphor had lost his place in the world,
There was no place to go.
His nest was destroyed, his wings would no longer carry him.

So I picked up my metaphor, and shared him with friends
And we met in secret conclaves around the world
And my metaphor got bigger and healthier
I think he'll be ready to fly by early November.

A dove by any other name, is still a pigeon to be plucked.

By Peter W. Brown

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