Nightingale Inn Poem by Paramananda Mahanta

Nightingale Inn

It singsfor them in their absence,
From the speaking branches,
Of the wise old tree,
Still holds the shreds of love,
For the dying out gossiping crowds,
Of civilities in villages and cities,
Left marks here for trade our time,
For their dying out streams,
It is filling up the woes of the gardener,
Sings its heart and soul,
For a mating stillness of nature,
Without a sentence and without a word,
It is heavenlyas she trills,
She whistles our civilization,
Nature is ever filled with animals or man,
A space of love isalways occupied,
With the brushing guise of beauty,
From generation to generation.

Copyright 2020
Paramananda Mahanta
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