Nightingale

 

She shot my Bird of Paradise.

Bleeding it lies, gasping

life oozing from its wounds

lustrous colours fading in

the twilight of its life

 

She would have a nightingale instead.

A poor, caged throstle voice to sing

whenever hearing pleases.

Oh the wildness of my Bird of Paradise

It sings too, a song of freedom,

perched upon her shoulder

 

Die, Bird, die

Goodbye, Bird, bye

It’s time your kind were laid to rest.

We all want caged nightingales

these days, instead.

 

Why, my poor bled Bird, why

did you not die before?

Why did the arrow I aimed miss?

My Bird, I can recover from your loss but

Your passing leaves life drab and colourless

 

Sweet nightingales sing cracked

From cages