Nightingale

by BRIANNA ROSE BURTON

My nightingale sings of passing flesh,
which daily sought to find itself in lover’s eyes,
to time, it seemed no less than transient,
but loving endless below immortal skies.

I find myself not waning to become,
nor lasting be, for I have never been,
this form has never loved beyond redeem,
nor loved to end, or ending to begin.

I know no fair beyond these mortal eyes,
but thee I loved, au reste, forevermore,
no other pleasing face could gradually give
this heart eternal brio and rapport.

merdivinity

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