In the velvety blanket of the nigrescent night,
Where starlight whispers and the moon sighs, alight,
There existed a melody, pure and strong -
A requiem now, for the Nightingale's song.

In the hush of the forest, ‘neath the emerald shroud,
She sang, unbroken, both humble and proud.
Her silver notes, like a gossamer thread,
Woven through dreams as we lay in our bed.

A symphony composed in the silent air,
Of love, of longing, of joy, of despair,
Her voice, a balm for the weary soul,
A harmony to make the broken, whole.

Oh, the Nightingale, in her sable plume,
Her song a beacon in the tangible gloom.
A lullaby to the moon, a hymn to the stars,
A sonnet of silence, healing our scars.

Her melody echoed in the heart's deep well,
A tale of the ages, only she could tell,
Of the sun's warm smile, the moon's tender glow,
The whispering wind, the river's flow.

She sang of the dawn, of the twilight's kiss,
Of the blissful moments, and those we miss.
Of the fleeting shadows, of the lasting light,
Of the gentle day, and the fearsome night.

With each note, she painted a picture so vivid,
In the canvas of silence, her song was livid.
A cascade of emotions, a waterfall of sound,
In her melody, the Universe was found.

But alas, the forest now stands quiet and still,
No song to be heard, no void to fill.
The Nightingale's song, once loud and clear,
Is but a whisper, the heart strains to hear.

Where once was music, now silence reigns,
An elegy of loss, a symphony of pains.
The Nightingale's song, now a ghostly echo,
A tragic sonnet of the shadow's woe.

Gone is the balm for the soul's deep sea,
The lullaby for the moon, the hymn for the tree,
The melody that danced on the evening breeze,
Is but a memory, lost in the freeze.

Her song, once a river, wild and free,
Is now but a trickle, lost in the sea.
A requiem, for the Nightingale's song,
A silence that feels too heavy, too long.

Yet, in the heart of the night, when all is still,
In the deep quiet, when the world has had its fill,
Listen closely, and you might just hear,
A melody, faint, yet crystal clear.

A ghost of a song, a spectral sound,
An echo of a melody, profound.
A reminder of a song, once clear and loud,
A Nightingale's song, a shroud.

So, here's to the Nightingale, and her song so pure,
To the melody that made us feel secure.
A requiem for the song we no longer hear,
A tribute to the melody we hold dear.

In the silence of the night, ‘neath the sable sky,
We remember her song, and we sigh.
For the Nightingale's song, forever gone,
But in our hearts, her melody lives on.

.    .    .