Still that nightingale
that dares sing
in my garden.
Does he not know
that my love died tonight?
My love lying
encased in woven lace,
covering the cranberry waves
pouring forth from
the slash within his skin,
and where do I even begin
to express my sorrow,
record the dimming
of the sun, and the crumbling
mountains on the moon?
War has wounded my warrior,
broken my heart like his.
I have no answers,
for I know not even
the questions that float
in the air against
a vague backdrop
of a vanished future.
The light diminishes, silver beams
fade, and I see a bronze coffin
in the distance. It floats nearer.
Is that reality shrieking like sirens,
or is it only my screams,
drowning out this obtrusive nightingale?
Ruth Wildes Schuler
Salopeot Spring 2010 (England)
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