Give a nudge.
Tears are falling from
the leaves. Who was crying
under the bo tree?

The lonely eyes
searching the moon in
vast blue sky.

The moles impinge
the shell, not to become
a pearl donor.

The beautiful nails
scratch the paper, to rewrite
the soul-searching song.

You throw the stones
miles long, to avert the
thoughts of bleak garden.

Nightingale will not
come back.