Afar and adrift, distant and mournful, a song familiar to me rests uncomfortably deep within, a lamentation tickling my ears until I can stand it no further.
Yet always I must listen still.
Always afar, always mournful, this sweet melody belongs to gentle souls who speak in tears from great distances both near and far.
Yet always afield do their voices sound.
Sweeter nonetheless when close afar, always afar, this soul betwixt sorrow and mine own soul, forever reaching into me to that place where memories live, regrets stand tall, sadness shines brightly, emotions run free.
Yet always I strain to hear one more chorus, one more refrain, for the essence within me needs as much.
Cooing as though life slips away or heart bleeds, what sad language passes betwixt such creatures to my soul rings of loss, of heartache, of mourning, and at all times these voices seem faraway, remote, removed, even more so in some strange way when standing within the same breath as I.
Yet always afar…
[mourning dove (Zenaida macroura)]