A Dying Nightingale
My heart
Like a dying nightingale,
Seaks your company,
Either in doleful silence
Of twilit evenings,
Or enfolded in joys of endless love,
Of your warm and gentle arms.
And it pipes its most beauteous song,
Into the eerie crepuscule,
Perched upon a tombstone
Waiting to hear the call from the darkness,
But it comes not.
And the little wings are folded,
Feathers dripping with rain,
Or tears pearly white,
As the solemn bird sings it’s last breath,
“If I only could hoot like an owl,
Or croak like a mighty raven
Then you would hear sorrow,
But my song, my last song,
Inspires in you a sensation of beauty.”
But you hear not the misery of my heart.
“Oh when I sing of melancholy, you see light,
When I sing of misery and solitude, you hear lush opulence,
So with my last breath I sing to you,
My mistress who sorely beguiled me,
For my life was an agony,
But I die a happy bird,
For my tears fall with rain,
And you shall wash yourself in them,
So fragments of me may stay upon you,
And you will sleep on a pillow,
Soft with the feathers of me.
“And you must hear the silent scream,
From Tanathos’ halls of eternal night,
As I pipe my songs with the dammed,
Still celebrating your name.
For eternity my love.”
And with those words of longing,
The cold, silent body fell upon the grass,
Never to be heard,
Again...
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