the songstress laughs,
musical peals tumbling from her mouth
and falling like rose petals
onto the glowing wooden floor.
she smiles, and the warmth of her eyes infuses the air,
the autumn breezes eddying around her face
in adoration.
the songstress kneels,
scooping up a handful of treble clefs
and arranging them in spiralling patterns on the floor.
Standing,
she opens her mouth
and soaring notes pour out in liquid streams,
bathing the early evening in gold.
her voice is gentle and pure;
nightingale - clear,
flowing and rippling,
oceans of light moving under crystalline stars.
her song is wordless,
and yet has more meaning than life itself.
the songstress stands in the afternoon sun,
delicate notes falling from her lips to land,
gracefully,
on the wooden floor,
only to float upwards to the ceiling
and through the open skylight,
dissipating into the evening.
