The pigeons fly and mess the land below
And the bats flap as the night bellows
But a dark black chick on the branch above
Keeps giving melodies about sorrow and love.
The fondness in the soul of the nightingale
One day sang a melody about a women in the vale
The song went on through the night and daylight
It had it’s moments of jocund, sorrow and fright.
“In the deep valley of the land on which flew,
There sat a lady on a stone, her tears carried by the wind which blew
A dense canopy surrounded all around
And a deep river flew, by nature she was bound.”
“But the grandiloquent nature made no difference
While I sat there unable to draw any inference
But then when I thought my voice was beyond comparison
I realised that she holds the father while I’m just the son.”
“There is wondered as to what made themselves better
That a voice as this could be better than mine
No words could beat this voice of mine, as sweet as sugar and smooth as butter.
Any song of mine is better, unlike the grassy songs, like thorns and hot saline.”
“She sang a song about the loss of the city
That once housed her heritage
And how nature had adopted her, not on the grounds of pity
But because she belonged here, there existed a bondage.”
And then the bird realised that the songs were not a trance
Because of the species or the person singing
But because of the emotion the voice possessed that could not turn away a glance
And the touch was ever persisting.
—
