Zenaida, born of Zeus

Killdeers call with perpetual fear,
Nothing but fear, fear, fear, look here, look here!

Owls stand guard with the moods of moonlight,
Calling who, who, who casts their shadows at night?

Each bird sings with a different style,
And somehow the mourning dove lost its smile.

Nobody knows their trouble and strain:
Woe is woe, woe, woe.
Pain is pain, pain, pain.
   

Nuthatches ha-ha-ha nervous as clowns
Dancing on branches and making their rounds;

Gulls have a child-like exuberant noise,
A playground of high-pitched girls and boys;

A distant hawk telegraphs its fairest warning,
And then there’s the dove, quietly mourning.

I cannot explain the mourning dove’s pain.

Can’t explain pain, pain.  

Can’t explain pain, pain. 

  

Crows are all arrogance, breaking the law,

Disturbing the peace with their caw, caw, caw;

Jays cop an attitude, ringing their name

From the tops of trees, all jay and no shame;

Cardinals share their clear cheer cheer

But the doves keep it personal, muted, austere

With hints of a story that nobody knows:

No one feels their pain.  

No one knows their woes.

    

Sparrows are whistling Dixie, with calls

Of teakettles, peabodies, bounced rubber balls;

Thrushes are pipers that play heaven for us,

Ethereally luring us into the forest;

Most birds are easy to characterize,

But who is to say why the mourning dove cries?

I cannot explain the mourning dove’s pain.

Can’t explain pain, pain.

Can’t explain pain, pain.