The Nightingale and I

I:
The nightingale flies honoring the sunset,
flirting with the last beams of light,
it hides not its sentiments from such a star and its magnificence,
yet as I contemplate the scene,
I find myself saying: why is the nightingale in love so utterly?

Nightingale:
The sunset is breathing its final breath,
it will die yes, but it will be born again on the morrow,
and I will fly again happily in its honour
and sing melodies of joy and in the wind slide,
and all my songs will be sung bathed in the sun’s light.

I:
It will be born again on the morrow,
and your felicity will find no match but the sun’s
and in the sun’s warmth there will be no sorrow,
for the day will be long and celebration will call,
and then the evening will come along, bringing a burden so cumbersome.

Nightingale:
Cumbersome is the burden of a heart pervaded in hopelessness,
my heart is a small one but the hope of the sun’s rebirth widens it,
I shed tears when the sun dies, yes, and my little soul embraces suffering,
and I take heed of these sentiments,
for I also know I have to taste the flavour of predicament.

I:
Predicament is a horrid word and one experiences an awful sentiment,
why would you want it to invade your heart and soul?,
do not you think life shall offer you something better and not this ghastly mourn?
you dance and sing and fly joyfully during the day,
and when the evening comes and the sun is no more, tears of sorrow your heart invade.

Nightingale:
Can not you see my heart is to the brim of hope?
my suffering is compensated by the hope on the sun’s reborn,
and I do not scorn suffering, for I have realised I have to embrace it,
just as I embrace the hope for the born of my beloved sun,
whose rays fill me with utter rapture every single day I live on.

RQ. Moscow. 8.1.11