Nightingales

It is night. For too long the sun has reigned…
The petite birds cry out, scorched
By their own joy. Beaks give voice
To light, those darting ornaments
Real only for one flight- and gone.
If recklessness could sing, she would soar
Then fall. Heavy.
Air holds only clouds, which fall: not one thing lasts.
Here water comes to lie over everything, still,
Over the nightingales buried with their sweet voices.

Advertisement