Death Of A Nightingale Poem by Sheena Blackhall
Death Of A Nightingale
The claws are inert and lifeless
Nightingale is about to share the delicate meat
Of her body with an assembly of woodland friends
She is laid out on the grass like an invitation
Her wings are pressed to her sides like linen napkins
Crow will start with her eyes,
Washed down with the red wine of her blood
Flowers may be appropriate,
But not obligatory.
Wild berries will provide the fresh dessert
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/10/2024 11:02:20 AM # 1.0.0.1119
