The Nightingale by Ron Ivey


A nomad not known by his own heart,
Separated from both tribe and pastures green,
Estranged by a distance too deep,
By atoms and magnetic force contained,
Walks in a universe dark and void of magic
Into a future collapsed in heat.
Every private good consumed, a diminishing taste.
The way littered by discarded objects of desire disdained.
His body breaking under time’s mill;
His mind’s battles with reality only temporarily won.
The only sound a ticking, a humming,
An omnipresent machine managed by a mob,
Tabulating his every thought and motion.
But the machine is deaf to a faint melody
Breaking softly through the noise.
The nightingale sings her evening call.
The nomad mimics a lover’s response
And remembers his home.