Was our a sprout that never blossomed?
Sitting on her windowsill, singing love’s lament;
Summer days slipped pass, the images remained.
Does love age and fade; lasting as long as the migrating
night?
Lost is the time of the songstress; singing to the deserting
sky.
Does not the moon see it nor does it care to hear its cries?
A distance separation, a lone nightingale takes flight.
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