Nightingale of the city, you came to sing your song but lost your voice along the way. Was it the bright lights or criticism
That led you to stray
From your first love, your passion. What was it that they committed? A crime against you following your dreams
Little nightingale, you visit my window sill each night before I sleep
And as you chirp the words of a secret language only I can understand,
I hear sadness in your tiny chirps, like this life of trying has made you tired and weary.
Sweet nightingale, you haven’t visited in such a while.
I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve taken up residence with a new confidant on a new window sill.
Perhaps you thought I grew tired of your stories sung instead of told.
It is winter now, and though you thought I wasn’t listening,
I was. Oh, how I was.
I just wish you’d come back home again.