Thoughts for a Dead Pigeon

 And you say that the battle is over
And you say that the war is all done
Go tell it to those
With the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun.


And write it on the side of the great whaling ships
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed
With the wild in their eyes
It is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the cost.


And you say that the battle is over
And finally the world is at peace
You mean no one is dying
And mothers don't weep
Or it's not in the papers at least.


There are those who would deal
In the darkness of life
There are those who would tear down the sun
And most men are ruthless
But some will still weep
When the gifts we were given are gone.


Now the blame cannot fall on the heads of a few
It's become such a part of the race
It's eternally tragic
That that which is magic
Be killed at the end of the glorious chase.


From young seals to great whales
From waters to wood
They will fall just like weeds in the wind
With fur coats and perfumes 
And trophies on walls
What a hell of a race to call men.


And you say that the battle is over
And you say that the war is all donje
Go tell it to those
With the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun.


And write it on the sides
Of the great whaling ships
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed
With the wild in their eyes
It is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the loss,
With the wild in their eyes
It is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the cost.
     You Say That the Battle is Over, by David Mallet, 1978 Cherry Lane Music Company 
     (ASCAP)


I saw a dead pigeon at church today.
It was not
flying, or
eating, or
walking, or
roosting.
It was dead.

They said
it was a nuisance.
They said
what they fed it
wouldn't harm it -
it would only affect its legs -
making it unable to roost.
Sounded innocent enough -
then.

But no one explained
that when pigeons can't use their legs,
they can't land.
And when they can't land,
they can't rest.
And they fly, and
fly, and
fly until
exhaustion and hunger set in.
And they fall to the ground,
struggling,
and die.

A nuisance?
No more sunlit Sunday mornings,
with courtyard full of
dappled white and
mottled grey.
No more peaceful background noise of
soft cooing and
rustle of feathered wings.
No more shadows
in sunlight
on stained glass windows.
All must end for -
nuisance.

O God, make us aware
of living things around us.
Make us reevaluate ourselves
and look for beauty.
Make us truly see
wind, and
water, and
wood.
Make us friend to
whales, and
harp seals, and
hares, and
pigeons.
Friends of life -
That's what we ask You to make us.
So that when you return
and demand of us an -
accounting,
we will have a world with
pigeons.