Nightingale Wiothout a Tongue

have you ever heard a song sung pitifully by a tongue-less nightingale vomiting blood on a treetop bathed in the moonlight the soft sound softer than the moonlight the clear sound clearer than the early morning dew; even constantly chattering water pauses for a moment to listen her enchanting song more attractive than the sirens’ she was once roaming around the sky above Leibethra at night, she sang a requiem with her flawless clear voice calling and gathering to comfort the soul that was torn to pieces and dumped in a river, now she is trying to tell her bitter and resentful story, and how her tongue was cut off but with her hoarse voice; it’s unintelligible like Cassandra’s prophesy, an entangled skein of thread never able to undo, it sounds hollow like an echo from mouth of a cave that can never be understood the nightingale’s low moan of despair is the scar that never goes away, and when this scar becomes a terrible pain. unbearable, the nightingale, as if moonlight covering a passing cloud, flies away abandoning the branch Note. Nightingale: Philomela