Her eyes are glassy.
Her scrawny hands tremble and she watches the nightingale flit
through the green shadows of nature
its angelic feathers beautiful in movement–

No! She searches the sky wildly, eager to capture a glimpse of the small, agile creature
its flapping wings and small beak
the tuft of blue and orange that spreads from its breast;

Clear, sweet birdsong breaks through the rustling of leaves
the melody warm despite the chill of the season.
The blue-throated nightingale whispers soft words:

Come home love
Come home.



I don’t care.
You can try your best and tear me apart.
The pieces of my heart will paint the skies like the dazzling stars,
and when the sun rises, it will be a

heavenly view.

The tears running down my cheeks will become a silver river

that flows through the realms of Dor-lómin. There, elven songs will chime and soothe my fatigued mind and mend

my broken, faithless heart.