The Nightingale

The Nightingale

The nightingale she sang for you! Now no one wants to know, All she gave was pure and true, The beauty of her soul.

In Berkeley Square, or on the stage, Her songs were driven by her rage The urge, the need to tell it straight: The hurt of long ago.

Chorus Now, no one listens to her song It’s sad, with shame, and all too wrong A cry, a whimper in the night When no one is around The nightingale still sings, but low, The song her pain has come to know She takes the rose-thorn to her breast It pierces deep, but brings no rest.

The nightingale is barred and caged Against her wish, against her rage; No one wants to hear her cry, Her dying note — “O let me fly!”

Chorus And distantly, we hear her sing The thorn still red, against her breast The voice, with which she once had blessed — A songbird sobbing in her nest.

— © Frank Callery. August 2017.