NIGHTINGALE INN

It sings for 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 or time,
For their dying out streams,
It is filling up the woes of the gardener,
Sing its heart and soul,
For a mating stillness of nature,
Without a sentence and without a word,
It is heavenly as she trills,
She whistles our civilization,
Nature is ever filled with animals or man,
A space of love is always occupied,
With the brushing guise of beauty,
From generation to generation.

Paramananda Mahanta