Distant echoes of a nightingales song bring
reflections of the flute she once played
young and inspiring, her flawlessness
was compared to the beauty of cherry blossoms
the tranquility of those nights seems utterly distant now

Within a circle of men, fighting to exhaustion
the not so distant scent of blood swarms his mind
fueling the rage that one often feels near death
sounds of men dying clash with the pounding of hoofs
creating a symphony of its own, a masterpiece of euthanasia

For too long he neglected the heaven she gave to him
often searching for fame or for riches
yet beneath his very nose lay the treasure he sought
not of gold or those of silver, fortune or of gems:
the richness of a woman’s love far greater

A surge of agony envelopes his soul
darkness flows from its wound
leaving him to ponder who will hold her
now that his lifeless body rests
with the obscure dream he strived to obtain…

Far into the distance a melody can be heard
A lone flute plays the song of mourning
while a nightingale watches perched upon a branch
with a flutter of wings the bird proceeds into the air
sending a single blossom to fall, neatly within her lap

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