The soul of nightingale   

           ****

The life, sincerely subdued

To the exciting song of nightingale

Through the painful nights,

And in the distress of moments

Its sorrow, fixed in joy and bliss

In the meaning mesmerizing;

The song, concerted in the wilderness

Providing its life, to the trivial inertia

Filling its tone, to the taciturn minds

And yet, while dying with mortal life

Applying its immortal tenor, to the nights

Sharing its love to many, from plain heart;

Of tonight, missing the fine raga…

The aching soul, heavily burdened

Hiding itself, in the alcove of the life

With feelings, blocking the wild thoughts

And thoughts, thinking of the serenity

Refusing, to enjoy the cheerfulness  

Of memories, of syrupy song; insignificant;

The amateur poem, the lively picturesque

Freedom into perfection, chanting Vedic hymn  

To enliven the nightingale, to the ecstasy

Allowing it to dwell, in the incessant nights

With its music of right, restored to life

That the wild nights, cause to be the softness;

Even the cherubs depressed of tedious heaven

Crying, for resurrection of the song of power

To cherish their existence, in accurate divinity

While the miracles astonished, of the miracle

Of resurrection of melody, cleansing the malady;

The pain in the heart, adapting the rhythm

To its veins, singing the obituary to the love

Sweetening the night, in divine dream of life

Keeping the melody in experienced peace,

Breathing the consistent nights of nightingale 

To feel the nightingale, under the warm chest;

The life, successful at its sweet and sacred death

Still, bestowing its curing to the community

And yet, at the point of receding into silence 

Giving its fractional vigor, to the abundance,

In the form of nectar, spewed by the sky