'The Rose and the Nightingale' is a retelling of a Moorish fable. I was reminded of the tale during a discussion with a library patron over whether or not nightingales live on the North American continent¹. I reread the tale, found I still liked it, and was inspired to try to put it into verse form.

One lovely evening in Allah's garden

A small bird sat alone,

With seeds of discord sown;

He would offer the blooms no serenade,

Disdainfully he viewed the games they played

With scent and hue - their joyful abandon.

He thought love a ridiculous burden.

But this evening was filled with enchantment -

A new queen had been crowned,

A rose of great renown

Whose velvety petals of purest white

Drove the haughty bird to jubilant flight;

And the song that had been so long unspent

Reached Allah's ears - melodic sacrament.

Among her soft petals with wings outspread

His love he did confess,

With song and sweet caress;

Yet in the joy of his recovered grace

A thorn pierced his heart - oh bitter embrace!

The garden fell silent, the bird was dead;

And the queen was crimson where he had bled.

Thousands of sighs toward heaven did sail,

The sad wistful refrain

Of tragic loss and pain;

So fleeting the joy - so deep the regret,

That Allah decreed, lest none would forget -

When a red rose is cut you first hear a wail,

Then the bittersweet song of the nightingale.

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Hypatia

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