Thursday, February 14, 2013

Nightingale's Song

Hearken her cry
As abysmal sky
Spake softly that her voice may fly

Piercing now the mossy stones
The unkempt pillars of corn that grow
In fields entrapped by the murky green pyres
Who stab and rise like this night’s fires

Red flowers reaching
Roaring coal beseeching

That their occupants might dim the flames
That the darkness may fade bright again
That they may see the beasts within

These wrought iron gates
These wooden seas
Who see and know their friend and foe

The voice they hear creeps slowly through
Their limber joints and eager roots

To the tarrous sky and earthy floor
For the melody that fuels their veins

The song of the Nightingale
The songstress of the night
Whose every word is a masterpiece poem
A sonnet sung to dark skies

And the forest
The mountains
The rows of corn

Breathe their reciprocal cries

To the song in the Nightingale’s eyes