I have a dove made from clay
My voice is drawn to a whisper
I no longer cling to these marble pillars
Will you listen?

The dove holds not an olive branch, but a seed
My voice is a smooth silver, reflective
I have a message as clear as cool water
Will you listen?

The dove turns from soft clay to stone
I raise my voice to brass
My hands carry tension in clenched fists
Will you listen?

The stone wings open and glisten with stained glass
I hear my voice cascade around these halls and come back to me in triplets
I am steady
Will you listen?