A lone nightingale sings a funeral dirge
perched high on top of the steeple, a silhouette.
In the darkness, an all engulfing silence, graveyards don’t speak.
The bird had seen all in its short life, sitting on the steeple,
he knew the tears shed when someone leaves, for a while or forever,
he knows the smiles when love blossoms,
he knows of sacrifice, as the mother of a fallen soldier
talks to his grave every evening at five thirty.
In many ways the bird is wiser than most. He knows transience.
He knows of his own short life, he respects the fragility
that we humans tend to conveniently forget.
It was forgotten by the young man inside the House of God right now.
It was November, and the darkness in God’s scheme could be seen
gathering in the sky, as what we call clouds.
The cold drops of water stung the road that his car drove down.
He now sits in tears, praying, in the cold rain.
A brake, a skid, screaming tires in harmony with the scream of one beside him,
his lover flying through the windshield, a moment of disbelief,
a lifetime of the memory. He wished he could turn back time,
as the pitter-patter grows louder against the stained glass,
The rain from his eyes and the cold rain outside.
As the solemn party walks outside, the bird and man glance at each other,
An understanding passing between them,
the raindrops stop and the setting sun shows its face, the bird flies away
It takes a walk through insanity and a sharp constant pain,
to know nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain.

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