Dove’s Blood

Doves blood falls a drip or two,

A silent red, a jaded hue,

This blood, it falls upon the bed,

From tainted hands, for Dove is dead.

Sweet Dove’s blood falls a pit a pat,

Upon a woven maiden’s mat,

Her blood it falls and drapes the side,

Of native beads and platted hide.

Now Doves blood falls,

Like holy rain, a dewdrop stain,

O’re window pane.

Her blood it falls, as angels bled,

Sweet Dove’s blood falls,

For Dove is dead.