Su Ben Poet Narrative

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

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