Nightingale
Two hours and thirty four minutes into the gloom
A young girl scurried up to her immense terrace
From the forlorn confinement of her white-walled room
She gave herself a minute, or maybe two
To adjust to a fate profoundly grotesque
A life seemingly devoid of blue
But a heavy sigh was to be sighed,
Ambivalent notions were to be put to respite
So she gazed into the vast sky above
Littered with angels in the guise of pristine balls of fire.
A truce of precarious nature was being declared in her head
When a sound rather uncanny wafted through the night
A sound meant for the elated ones during the hours of light;
By the lofty pillar of her father’s veranda
Was perched a nightingale singing for company
It chirped it’s tiny heart away, up on the Banyan tree
What timing! For the tweeting eased her
Melodious to her in melancholy, it pleased her
Like a balloon untied, the tension left her frame.
It served almost a remedial purpose, the song;
As the bird chorused with all its might, versed short and long
She viewed the miniscule silhouette of the creature
That is when she realized simplicity in itself was the cure
There was no need for the complex things to hold such allure
The true essence of our beings lay in the little events
The parties of squirrels, the falling of leaves,
The ebb and flow of sea, the little details of she
With those alone, she thought, humans can survive.