The Call of the Nightingale
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The forlorn valley seems to beckon me,
Only one cottage midst so many trees,
So many shrubs where nightingales are wont
To find repose in any place they please.
Few are those that visit the bleak, sad vale,
And hear the sweet song of the nightingales,
Their trebles with high and low crescendos.
I wonder what really are their tales.
Above many flowers they fly in glee,
Drink from sweet flowing water of a rill,
Enchant their love mates with melodies spree.
Evening comes, the sun sets behind the hill.
I wish that lonely cottage was my place,
There I would live in quiet, peace and grace.
7 June 2021
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2021
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