Amongst the quiet young night,
Surrounded by darkened green
And pale yellow glowing all around,
A woman sat alone on a bench
With no direction to head to
And thoughts that cannot be contained.
Her hands hold a music box:
A delicate and simple little tricket,
Encased in dark sapele wood
And edges lined with pearls.
One twist of a tiny key
Allows a nightingale to come play its song.
Happiness is always in its lyrics,
But now the words within its melody
Amounts to just two words:
The last song has already been sung,
Yet the owner could not bear
To depart with it once and for all.
Tears spilling from her eyes,
She slowly wound the triket one last time
And she let go.
Gently she set the musicbox down
On the bench beside her,
Then she retreated into the night,
Leaving the nightingale to sing its hurtful song
On and on into the young night.