I wonder if the forest's sounds
have been made just to tease
the wanderer who walks the grounds
and feels the morning breeze.
I'm partial to the nightingale
inside I sing along,
and as I walk I tell a tale
about her silk sarong.
She is the bird, and, at the bend
flies down onto my head,
and whispers, 'love, it is the end,
because you're truly dead.'
'It cannot be', I do protest
'I feel completely well, '
'then come and join me in my nest
though it is really Hell.'
I have been fooled one final time,
lured by a pretty bird,
I shall no longer speak in rhyme
I'm missing just one word.
Herbert Nehrlich 2
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/forest-sounds-2/
