A Prostitute's Tale

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.