One summer, there was a family downstairs that kept several cages of pigeons. Every time the sun was about to set, you could hear whistles, followed by swarms of snow-white pigeons, flapping their wings. They sometimes flew very close to my window, and I might be able to catch one while standing on the balcony. After two quarters of an hour, the whistle stopped sounding, the pigeons returned to their cages, and the sun set.
Sometimes I feel that it's not that I haven't flown yet, but that I haven't found a place to land yet. My heart has been flying all over the world and it's difficult to land.
I can't be a dove, I have to go against the whistle and go to my own place.
Intention: One summer, I found myself far away from home