in the attic
a flock of doves; they mean to love.
Everyday when there's twilight, they're sent out to dawn.
But there's one of them, unlike them,
somewhat darkerand his eyes do rove.
He is not sent, and he cannot love.
So he grows darker, and darker,
until he can perfectly lurk
in the darkest corner.
Wait, and wait does he. One after another
he blinds them with beak
to let them see.
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