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O, how the Nightingale sang its song;
a sweet melody enveloping the crowd,
turned sour by fear, dripping from the chorus like poison.
The crowd intensely waited, captivated by her voice:
a siren to the masses. Staring blankly onward—confused
about in a trance, they soon departed.
Perhaps it was a warning; poison,
dripping ever so slowly.
Messaging in its only way:
A Song, a song, a crazy song, a façade of insanity, masked by
Naïveté. But what lies beneath, in the ancient Bird’s mind
but a jungle of azure, chartreuse, and violet notes;
blending harmoniously, concocted into expression.
Notes not of insanity, but love.
At first I visited, but like a drug: addictive.
Addictive to get that song, that message, that warning.
That last hope…of life. But
the Nightingale sang of sleep, of winter, of night.
“But Nightingale it is so far away!”
“What is far, or even close, when it is
welcome?” Suddenly she stopped, closed her eyes,
and drifted away, the night still young.
As if she was a prophetess—
all knowing, all seeing, all sensing,
she could hear the coming of change.
Over the weeks I visited, every day.
Some would say it was a chore, a bore, but I
didst not give a snore, for I loved the lore, grasping to the
Truth. The lore of the Nightingale sang deep into the night,
messaging in her only way:
But soon, walking one day to my oracle, the wind
whispered to me, gently nudging me faster. Forward taking me
into the night, feeding my hunger, that fierce breath submerged me into it’s thoughts.
The clouds came in, the sky darkened, leaving me in a haze,
a haze so strong, full of confusion, full of fear.
I stumbled forward, flying to the Nightingale, hoping for her comfort,
for her song—“Winter is here, Winter is…”
O, why did the Nightingale sing her song—of fear, of warning, of suffering, of hope?
Messaging to me in her only way:
A Song of Love,
A Song of Good-Bye.