There nightingale, purr a gentle gnarl
One last shrill to be shorn from
The loving recess of your breast,
A cockle's chamber of royal jelly
In the lavender pocket of your broth
There is a lark of becoming
Heathered by the dawn,
Where pass the pearls of starlight
Nightingale, spread your wings
An event horizon from where is feathered
Our cherished dove perched
Upon the broken harps of heaven
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