The charcoal remnants of the birdcage that set ablaze,



Sunken halfway into the ashen ground,



Where our transient, white dove spent its long drawn out years,



Captive inside the ribcaged cell,



Strumming it's beak along the cold, steel ribs,



That enclosed our earnest bird and over a space of time,



Said dove learnt the technique of creating sound,



By strumming the raw, steel bars,



And plucking them at...