Under Nightingale, she sews the finest song,
I seek brighter, more beautiful still.
Oh,
it is like searching for paintbrushes, used on the horizon,
water deeper than an iris,
truths clearer than a diamond.

If I link letters, weld words, stream sentences together.
If I, on the end of this floating to earth, fallen feather.

Nothing will match her. Nightingale.

Silhouetted, 
That Song.
Unravels to earth, and I on the end of that ribbon,
Take it to my lover,
Ringing out in my lungs,
hollow no more,
How though,

With haste comes a problem,
for the song that I sing, is not Nightingale.
I can her hear in my heart, but not in the air,
In my rib cage she weeps, a song of despair,

For not only is it day,
for the lady of night,
Stolen, such secret, entrusted to her,
If I cloak the verse, the song and the like,
As swiftly as morning, the meaning will break, 
As dawn does greet his wake,
her neck shall surely break.

Trace prints on the land,
to find the mark, where the ribbon first fell,
Nightingale. Dark quilt that she lays,
She belongs to night, as day does the lark.

'Til I find the spot, where feral winds howl,
and branches bow their respects, 
where eyes a-certain stare with unknown,
and the sun lies low on the crest,

Give her the freedom, that was not mine to take,
Let her loose on the land, ribbon shiver away,
Bird of beauty, burst with the glory,
Sew the song, wrap the hills in ribbons long,
Under Nightingale, she sews the finest song.