When the dark of night
Pours
Into the silent bedroom, something whirls and
Soars
Outside as well.
Songs.
Not the bright chirps of the small brown birds. Sad and
Long.
Not the harsh piercings of the warblers. Assonance
Flows.
Not the screeching calls of the seagulls. Melody
Blows.
The songs of the nightingales bleed into the
Air.
The sleeping world even seems to
Flair.
The notes are beautiful, the chords are
Dreams.
The birds are a mystery, unknown are their
Seams.
Are they sparkling black, with iridescent
Green?
Or do they have shimmering feathers from mottled
Steam?
Long tails, swift wings, wise minds and
Hearts?
Or a mirage of darkness, ghosts making up their
Parts?
The nightingales make their home in the
Night.
If you should awake like I did, in the absence of
Light,
Don’t be afraid of the nocturnal music
Calls.
Shivering will make you
Fall.
No comments:
Post a Comment