Andersen's Nightingale
A brown bird's voice
ripples through the willows,
charms all travelers.
From hiding, her liquid joy
bubbles up in song.
The emperor of that country, in his palace surrounded by gardens and walls, learned about this treasure from a book. "I must hear this nightingale tonight!" he said. "Bring it to me or you will all be punished." The courtiers searched until the bird was found. "I sound better in the woods," she said, "but I will come."
In the palace,
porcelain walls echo
her tumbled tones.
Stern ruler, tears welling,
pleads, Sing for me always.
The emperor offered the nightingale gold and rubies, but she refused. "An emperor's tears are jewels enough for me," she said. Then she filled the throne room with her ringing songs again and again.
On golden bough
displayed, the willing captive
still warbles.
Silk-clad sycophants
turn friendship's song to fashion.
Everyone tried to mimic the sound of the nightingale's song or named their children after her. Then one day a large package came from a neighboring kingdom. It was addressed to the emperor and labeled "The Nightingale."
A gem-decked bird,
Automaton wound up, wags
its stiff-hinged tail,
captures the fickle court
playing changeless music.
The real nightingale slipped away to the woods. The artificial bird, set on a cushion by the emperor's bed, was wound up over and over until the night its spring broke with a whir and the music stopped. A clever craftsman repaired it but warned that it should only be played once a year.
Five years later, the emperor became very ill. He grew weaker and weaker until the whole court expected him to die. Everyone ran off to greet his heir, leaving the sick emperor alone in his bed.
Death, mocking,
Holds the sword of state,
dons his crown.
Leering visions circle
with bitter accusations.
Phantoms of the emperor's past actions whispered, "Do you remember? Do you recall?" Faster and faster they whirled around his bed. Louder and louder they taunted him.
With labored breathing,
for Death sits on his chest,
the dying king
cries out for masking music,
Sing! Sing, my precious bird!
But the artificial bird was silent. No one was left to wind it up. It lay on the embroidered pillow, useless. The phantoms blurred into a solid ring of black, then disappeared.
Sudden stillness.
Death stares through hollow eyes
that steal life's warmth.
Despair traps the last breath
in the emperor's throat.
Into that fearful silence came a thread of familiar music, rippling from a tree outside the open window.
A feathered throat
whispers trust and hope
from narrow leaves.
Enchanted, Death cedes
crown and sword, drifts off.
Listening to the nightingale's song, the emperor fell asleep. When he woke up, he was well. "Do not leave me again," he begged. But she would not stay. "I cannot live in your palace, but I will come to you every evening," she promised. "I will sing for you because I love your heart, not because you wear a crown."
At her own pleasure,
she will come and go,
sweet songster,
sit upon love's golden bough,
to sing his drained life full.
(Copywrite 2001)
