Anti-dove of peace

 And you arrive early in a stampede. From the flowers of the park you can see the stele from the perfume. Thresholds like beds. Look at the threshold. Hear church bells nearby. From that shore of the wind. Where space grows. As a stab weapon. Anti-dove of peace. It perches on the pink cherry blossoms that bloom. He rests his weapons on the fragile wings of the branches. On the bank of the trunk. Ever drowned.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypothesis / thesis.