Nightingale, you are known
For your powerful beautiful song sung
From your day or your night time tongue?
I cannot recall. But I might know your tone
your music bars in my skin, are stitches sewn
The water from your coat by the sun wrung
To grow the land, from the hand and lome
A voice from where your wings were hung.
To carry your call to little corners
Of this big place, you cover it with a knowing
Under your flying form cast no foreigners
Over all the land and it’s unknowing mourners
Your feathers never bowing and ever glowing
Immune to November’s blowing that has torn her
To the house of head you give its dormers
But wait Nightingale, where are you going?
I heard it said once somewhere
Heard it over and above the blare
penetrating my human weight and height
That beyond the warming of the sun so trite,
You do sing in the night. In the night.
Heard it out of a little tear
In the earth’s canvas pulled so tight
Though birdsong’s conversation status, rare.
And that after dark, there really exists no fright.
But tonight, your silence, angel, confounds
Thus, what is the body behind those tales of sounds?
That noise, it must be song of doubt
Pages and pages of music, bound
Friend of feathers with no pounds
Chirping, tiny in your clout
I am Silence bound, on leaf falling route
Where is your name of night in the gales about?
The mysterious heart around which I am wound.