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Her broken voice
Gathered the strength
To sing again, but tonight the
Rough winds restrict her effort.
Nor she could fly away to a faraway
Land, for her wings are severed too.
Bruised and defeated she lies perched
In the low branch of stolen freedom.
Yes, stolen it is, for whatever be her
Triumph in the past, she knows that she
Cannot escape her own shadow; a mocking
Rebuke of a proud arrogant bird.
In the past, her song would lighten up the
Glade as the dryads danced to the heavenly
Euphony she created, but the king of the jungle
Grew tired of her juvenile voice and instead
Forced her to sing songs that would summon
The wolves and hyenas, and so her song matured
Into a lustful cacophony that tattered the
Heart of the forest. She had choice then,
To fly away to another land, for she had
Wings, but Alas! She was also starting to
Enjoy her newly found freedom.
Then one night, after her song had finished,
The hungry king decided to feast on her
Little body to get whatever source of flesh
He can muster. She somehow survived  the attack,
And now she lies perched on the low branch
Bruised and defeated. She is the nightingale
Of the forest.

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