Dying Dove

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It was an autumn morning.
The breeze caressed my face
And the leaves crunched beneath my feet.
As I was reaching out to pluck an apple from a dying branch.
A dove landed upon my hand
And stared into my eyes.

But there was something wrong with
This poor beauty.
A broken wing.
For this dove could fly never again.
I spent some time with it.
I hoped for it to fly one day.
I wished for it to heal.

Though I knew all along,
This dove would never make it.
And in the end,
It took its last breath
In my cracked palm.

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