A lone bird flies in the darkness on and on for ever.
He lost his heart and soul once to a white dove.
He knows he will never find another like the white dove. That the white dove
was his answer and who he was looking for.
So he flies on and on - there is no point searching - no point looking -
there would be none he could ever find like the white dove.
So on and on the bird flies in a pointless futile existence.
He does not join the horses in the vale of never ending tears - where men
with broken hearts that never mend become horses and dwell.
He does not feel happy at seeing others with their joy at gifts of fountains
of eternal youth - or drinks of joy and happiness.
He sees those in the valley of death - where some criticism has cascaded them
so low - they never recover.
He flies...