The Nightingale’s Song at Midnight and the Morning Rain

A silver thread of midnight hums, where ink spills stars on velvet drums. The nightingale sings in scattered hues, its voice a dance of reds and blues. Moonlight waltzes on weightless wings, drifting through the dream it brings. Circles tremble, lines take flight, shapes dissolve into liquid light. Then morning stirs—a hush, a sigh, soft rain weaves gold through the sky. Droplets echo in silent streams, blurring the edges of last night’s dreams. The bird still sings, though worlds have turned, in colors wild, in colors burned. Midnight’s whisper, dawn’s refrain— art and song, forever the same.