The Valley of Doves

Down within the Valley of Doves, a valley between two Mountains of Slaughter, they eat the flesh of Doves to obtain Beauty. For here, there is a King of Sickness and his Thief; both are the culprits to this long line of slaughter. Never will they let anyone climb the Mountain of Health.

NEVER-HEALTH

She meets the Thief upon the road. He told her of the beautiful valley. She could come and partake in the Feast of Beauty. If She would just adhere to the rules, then all her dreams of Beauty and Love would come to be!

See how the Thief of Life is always correct; see how the Thief can viciously tear down those who interject. The Thief knew how to introduce and present a convincing lie, for the King of Sickness had taught him well. He is wealthy, for he gives each creature he comes in contact with to the illness-dealer. So here is a warning against all who come to the Thief: never should they turn their backs.

But her back is turned; the Thief has weakened her. It is how She comes to meet the King of Sickness. The Thief would befriend her, bid her trust him, see to it that She had Place and Rest. He would darken her eyes faster than She could clear them.

There, where the sunlight came through a beautifully spread woodland grove, the Valley sprung to Life as the gliding wings of white passed over.

Pastures upon pastures over the eye and rocks to the sides; this is where the Dove bird would nestle. Where they glide over the Lands, the meadows, these white flocks, this Valley was all so gracefully kept as if walking into a dreamland. Alas, it was a blind stand against Life-itself. Here could be found the bones of murdered-Doves, driven into the Valley in torrents.

White veils fly overhead, but if any Dove were to leave the Valley, they would not reach a mile from the borders without being shot from the sky.

Every carving was bone; every seat was once a living-body. Far and wide did people venture to the Valley of Doves to eat their meat and grow more beautiful in turn. Men and Women disappointed with their lot; these were the folk who ate more keenly than any other creature. One state caused the other, and the other coddled the union. Both were bitter.

Ceremoniously they would smear hate upon the Philosophy of Health. Eat for the mind so it may be able. No, they would have no parting feast with their addictions. Their addictions stayed.

And so they stayed within the dark listenings of a drunk story, where the crust of every wrongful-death is taken and then eaten. Philosophy was one of Cruelty. For in Cruelty, they gain the upper hand. It was a balm to their ailments. And their conditions had made them rather sickly with a weight they did not want to carry. But indeed, this Philosophy was of ignorance, for the pain and hurt of a quivering Land is quick to suffer blindness.

The filth is swimming around in their veins. There is no Kingdom of Health here. Moments go amiss when filthy food is the only saviour. The illusion has cast over their congealed eyes; a valid state of pulling to and fro; a law unto the masses.

THE FEAST OF BEAUTY

The men and women were all starving, no matter how many Doves they stuffed in their mouths.

Which does one eat: the tasty one or the tasteless one? They believe that the Dove will grant youth; they give Death to Others, to ail their bodies turning with age. The King of Sickness spoke this into their ears; he was a great entertainer and would perform the hunt daily. He would then slice up his prey, make his food, his clothes, and his tools, and spread his Sickness thus.

The King and his professed service, calling attention to this flesh! He parades it! He makes-believe that they MUST eat the Dove. He announces, and he proclaims his declaration of Reason! All the while dressed in a frown, a voice of Disrespect booming, and a chide against Freedom curling. They cared for Beauty; they cared not for the values of Honor.

COME ALL WHO SEEK BEAUTY! COME TO THE FEAST OF BEAUTY AND EAT!

Springing forward for the hunt, the sick, low, and disadvantaged populations would faint in anticipation as the Slave murders and boils the Doves alive; whilst he buries each dove and digs up the meat.

She is distraught by this but finds comfort in a sweet Dove, who, above the rest, had come to her side and cooed—a Dove who had upon him a single grey feather just under his chin. A friendship soon began of it.

And so, whenever a quiet moment came, they would keep the other company—all in defiance of the Feast of Beauty.

She would care for her friend, the Dove, as if he were her dearest, just as he kept her from harm. He could see from high above, warn her of dangers to come. The Dove told her when She should go left and when to go right. And in return, She too would keep The-Dove from the knives and forks that would devour him.

In defiance, She would think of ways that She could take the Dove and free him. If they could just Escape, they could be free. But The-Dove would never leave his Kin. He would go if the rest left with him.

FORESIGHT

The play of power had begun to devolve her spirit. Who would listen?—who would talk? All of this frowning, frothing, and strict control over another. All for-profit and for sticks to expand their Empire.

How can She end this eating of dissociation by the mere yearning for a fair and kind Rule? There is a starting point, an addiction that leads to overeating, which leads to Shame. It is a shameful host that eats up the most!

She smells the roses as if She were calm to all who espy her. She watches them in the distance as they live joyously; the alchemists, painters, the practitioners, all of them kings of their trade. She wished so much to make sweet partings with this old life, as they now do. She sought that place of tenderness upon every waking moment and yet could never find what She wanted.

She was so dwelling amid the rivalry. Sitting in her fair wake, sorting, saving, and sowing, making ways toward the charming years of joy that She so envisioned to come. But these visions were bottomless. They were the open sky; they were the sunken pit. They were the highest of the high; the lowest of the low.

Through this, She met the saddest, most hopeless hours. The She-Creature was a guilt-monger with many riddles and no answers. She went onwards in this state, as one with no value to give, with no moral at all, no wisdom!

So in service must She give! Then so be it! Through this Valley of Famine, She shall resolve the lack of Health. But She cannot teach against this if She is shy of speech. She has no voice. She has not the foresight to know what the ending is, to destroy the ruling thumb.

The Feast of Beauty took from their beauty more than it gave. But the Men and Women are too intoxicated by their Never-Health; they cease to listen, never would they encounter the words of Health and heed their warnings.

They are stiffened by a dependency far from softening, no longer water-lashed by the tears of Being. They drink from the water of surety. They did not have to work hard to get it, by nuns and monks, by Youth, beauty and opportunity! They touched upon her flesh as She walked among them.

But they did not heed her warnings!

SCENT

The She-Creature hid the Dove from Death as often as She could. But the Scent of pain and hunger followed her as She spent her days with the Thief. The King of Sickness looming in the foreground, his staff primed for whacking. He would do all that he could to get the She-Creature to eat the body of a cooked Dove.

The Thief would smear himself in the scent of Dove stew, put on her bed a slice of Dove pie, serve it to her in bowls, and plates, and glasses, wave it before her and pronounce his love of the meat. But She would not eat.

She ate the thrown-away portions, Plant-carcasses and seeds that did not sprout. The King of Sickness served the Dove on a luxurious bed of Plants, to which She ate.

She endured every scathed hour upon a scathed week!

Until the day, She flees with the Dove, running so fast as to try and find that greener country. She moves forth upon that cold field to Escape the aberrant burning of meat! Into a deep forest green, covered with the red of blood, She is a fleeting caretaker scuttling by the trees. She is flying so fast as to connect the eternal sunshine with the bare bone of slaughter. So disheartened, She lies back into all of the muck.

In this mountainous empire of Death, there is no sheaf of Hope. They find only blood on every leaf and blade of grass. It was not a fence that She could easily climb. She was exhausted. She had the colour of a Virgin mind. But with all of this scrimping and scraping, squirming and shaking, the Thief and the King of Sickness found them as they fled.

THE DOVE DIES IN HER HANDS

The dawning of Life drags till it can no longer stand straight! The first time She saw Death come was to one that She gave ever so much Love and Protection.

The Dove took a long Death. For four days, the Dove did suffer. Knocked back by a club, the Dove could not use its legs. His breathing had diminished. Such harm did the King of Sickness submit this Dove to leave it half-alive.

The Doves head frantically spun around in distress as the King of Sickness whipped the She-Creature as raw as the reddest meat. Here She would now lay, quivering upon the floor for trying to save the Dove, punished for lashing out against the Crime and the killing of her friend.

The King of Sickness dances as the flesh sizzles upon the cooking bird. The Thief parades the dead body. The Addict suckles down every last drop of blood. And they roll the bodies into a pit of bones, to which the Dove makes his final landing.

The Thief then has the She-Creature dragged to the Prisons. He would steal her Life as his last token. But as She waits for her sentence, a silent warden takes pity upon her. A small flicker of empathy runs through him, for he saw what She did for the Dove. The silent warden opens up to his ignorance. And so, decides to help the She-Creature. He smuggles her to the boarders and leaves her within a cave, with provisions and a Hope that this would be enough to save her.

*

So now comes the long climb to carry herself up that Mountain of Heartbreak. From the frowning cauldron, where the crust of Death has hardened to stone, She is the rock upon Deaths burial ground. No more does Lust and Idolatry hold weight; She is grieving an unbearable loss.

For Harlow, who died on 16th January 2021. I will always love you