Looking through the veiled window,
Which way will the nightingale go?
Will it be up, will it be down?
Do not fret, do not drown.
Rest on the oak tree’s branch, and sing
Your beautiful song, for the delicate spring,
And whilst we pant and fight,
Desperately trying to save our plight,
I sit and listen, in quarantine,
To the song of a passerine.
You soothe my heart, you rest my mind,
You are so small, so finite, so kind.