A Nightingale

Can you imagine a nightingale without wings,

Singing on a grassy green ground,

But holding its head high,

Yearning for the soft sapphire sky.

A thousand and one ants gather around,

As if drawn by its turning tunes.

But how can they understand the beauty

Nestled within the dancing melody?

The nightingale knows though, its audience is not here.

They are in the arc light above, weaving their own aria

On the infinite blue stage it can never reach.

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Yet still it refuses to bow,

Refuses to acknowledge its Earthly audience,

Refuses to dirty its claws with mud and grime

Refuses to find for anyone but itself.

A hopeless act of defiance

Against the primordial tradition of Gravity.

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But if you listen closely

The nightingale's tune is not of sadness,

Not of yearning, nor of pain.

It is a pity in the nightingale's song.

Pity for its audience in the sky, never to hear its brilliant song.

Pity for the thousand and one ants, never to understand the flowing melody.

Pity for itself, never to step on the limitless stage of the sky.

Pity for Gravity, never to realize the talents it suppresses.

Pity for the Earth, never to remember the greatest bard of all.

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And then, all of a sudden, in a flash,

There is a streak of light, a roll of darkness.

The dream bursts like a glass overheated.

All that is left is the charcoal smell of monoxide

And a broken carcass, some smothered feathers, and a streak of blood,

The only reminded of a once brilliant vocalist,

To be eaten away by a thousand and one ants,

Blown away by the unforgiving wind,

Colored over by a kindergartener's neon green chalk.

But finally, the nightingale arrives, on its infinite stage,

Ready to find those worthy of its princely voice.