The new day stutters as you rise, light flickers.
An old movie, life is showing off itself outside your window.
In the shape of some old woman memories go through your head.
Trees are swaying as in trance, their trembling branches
worshipping tangerine sunlight. The larks, your friends,
are gone, you miss their song.

The street is shining emptiness while rain falls hard,
the branches lost their leaves already,
their dance becomes macabre.
After a coffee all seems peaceful for a bit,
and new is good you say;
the sun rose as a flower.

You could be fooled so easily, go back to bed
and lured into some other dreams
postponing what must come. Procrastinating it.
But then in unison some crows
hack down the morning silence fast.
Why stay, you can not do this anymore.

Where is it that nightingales go
when they are old, to die?
This hurts your ears, this brings you down.
And worse: you’ve seen it long before.
You know this day.
It is your last.


Comments on: "Nightingales" (6)

  1. mcfcwolf said:

    brilliant on so many levels

  2. La rossinyola

    The blackbird’s hour – the time that steels
    the twilight’s lour, but still reveals
    the frame of trees – has gone at last;
    the evening frees the wind, outcast
    of day’s demesne, to scour the eaves.
    And as the reign of night bereaves
    the world of wealth, and warmth, and wit
    – why! – then in stealth I creep, to sit
    amongst the shades and dare to sing!
    Then willow-blades, remembering
    the dance of day, bend low to hear
    of love, and say, “Sweetheart, draw near”.
    But I am just a nightingale
    and, if it must, my song will fail.

    MM, 2008

  3. bitter sweet Ina, bitter sweet…

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