I saw a pair of
dove.
Playing nearby a
cove.
Ignoring the
rocks above.
As they’re madly
in love.
White, is both
the dove.
Pure, as of the
love.
Firm, as like
mangrove.
Free, for them
to rove.
Will their love
meet a curve?
Where it’ll
start to swerve?
When everyone
disapprove?
And demand them
to behove?
But love will grant
them a trove.
And they will
both uphove.
As they will find
their prove.
That their love
indeed truelove.
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