~The Nightingale and Rose

O beloved,

Last night I walked in the rose garden alone,

Air was full of your fragrance,

I looked everywhere for a sign

Of your passing, perhaps a thread of your hair,

Or your fingertips, mark at edge of a leaf.

Behind the dark garment of night

I found a crushed rose, emptied of life,

soaked in mud and dirt.

Edge of her petals were soft, like a velvet,

her colour, dark red mixed with a shy pink,

her smell was faded away, her pulse was given back to earth.

I sat with her, weary of her short pilgrimage,

 while her remain pressed tenderly

to the lips of ground,

 nightingale whispered her farewell.

O, beloved,

We forget to look into each other’s eye,

When there is a time,

Before heaven presses our spirit.

Fields so quickly covered by snow -flakes.

Winter’s touch enter between

The nightingale and  the rose.

Creatures made of delicacy, beauty and tears.

Song written by  waves of yearning and many farewells.

“Speak to me of the glory of your heart,

In tides of love, in songs of hope,

In promise of new spring,

 in forever caresses of death and life,

With tenderness and contented solitude.

The nightingale and the rose

 have no more tears.

The garden is awake,

no winter ever comes.

13th April 2021

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