The nightingale sings in its forlorn cage
Behind a five piece false brass orchestra,
Twenty four hours in true seven days,
A song unheard: The oldest formula.
For if this evening song were heard at last,
And its feathers could feel the wind beneath;
A joyous blooming day would last dawns past,
And its cage would no longer be its sleep.
But if this cage, or crate, or Crete must be,
Then a fate like Icarus must suffice:
To fly and feel the sun and drown in sea,
Is better than a flightless dateless night.
But if the nightingale must see its three,
Then so shall this bird always sing and sing.