The Nightingale Doth Sing VII - Innocence

Some kind of innocence is measured out in you.
- Hey Bulldog, The Beatles

There is a thread
subtler than silk
subtler than memory
or longing
or hope

There is a thread
thin as a spider's web
pearled with dew
Just as beautiful
Just as strong

Moonlight
and sunlight
dance on it
showing something dormant
something that cannot be dead
since it's never been quite born

There is a thread
If I follow it
it can almost take me back
to who you were

If I follow it
I can almost become
who I never was

Who we were
Who we never were

The Nightingale Doth Sing VI - Blanks (versión censurada)

One day it will happen
One day it will all come true
One day when you're ready
One day when you're up to it.
I can feel it.
-Björk, One day

...even now, as the slugs begin their sluggish
withdrawal - each complete in love and lust;
each mother and father to what they've made
together; each alone, content, and free.
-Conversation with Slugs and Sarah, Jennifer Chang

I had a dream.
We were ourselves. We were not ourselves.
We inhabited our bodies.
They were possessed. By ancient eyes:

I am here. You are here.
Your lips steal an ancient longing from my lips.
Your mouth speaks of old yearnings to my mouth.
Your tongue feeds that never forgotten thirst on my neck.
Your hands press long kept desires unto my body.

I open up.
I let you summon me.
I let you shape me
into who I want to be:

Flesh that feels your flesh
Flesh that feeds on your flesh
Flesh that nests your flesh

I have you. You have me.
I hold you. You hold me.

We remember.
We wonder about a past
that could've been a mutual future.
Yet we prefer the now.
The many pleasures of the now.


When I woke up the first time
I knew you were still there
So I smiled before I opened my eyes:

You tuck me in
Before you leave.
Before you leave
I reassure you:
You are free.

The second time I woke up
I had new memories of you.
To fill in the blanks.

The Nightingale Doth Sing V - That certain night

I may be right, I may be wrong,

But I'm perfectly willing to swear

That when you turned and smiled at me,

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue

To interrupt our rendez-vous,

I still remember how you smiled and said,

"Was that a dream? Or was it true?"

Lyrics to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square

The Nightingale doth sing IV - Blooming and singing

La rosa enflorese                     The rose is blossoming

hoy en el mes de may              now, in the month of May

Los bilbilicos cantan                The nightingales are singing

con sospiros de aver                 sighing with desire

Los bilbilicos cantan                The nightingales are singing

en los arvos de la flor               on the blossoming trees

Letra de la canción sefardí Los bilbilicos, tomada del artículo When will that be, de Liang Sheng, publicado en Poemas del Río Wang.

The Nightingale Doth Sing III - On the viewless wings of Poesy

Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! Tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays.

Fragments of Ode to a Nigthingale, by John Keats

The Nightingale Doth Sing II - Songs for the Emperor (or, your heart better than your crown)

- Little bird, your song has gone straight to my heart. I wish to reward you. You may have my golden slipper, to wear around your neck.

- Thank you, no. I have been rewarded enough. I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. For me, that is the richest treasure.

Dialogue from The Nightingale, Faerie Tale Theatre

The Nightingale Doth Sing I - Escuchar el silencio

Otra vez un chico le trajo su canario, que no quería cantar. Eso era una tarea mucho más difícil para Momo. Tuvo que estarse escuchándolo toda una semana hasta que por fin volvió a cantar y silbar.

Momo escuchaba a todos: a perros y gatos, a grillos y ranas, incluso a la lluvia y al viento en los árboles. Y todos le hablaban en su propia lengua.

Algunas noches, cuando ya se habían ido a sus casas todos sus amigos, se quedaba sola en el círculo de piedra del viejo teatro sobre el que se alzaba la gran cúpula estrellada del cielo y escuchaba el enorme silencio.

Entonces le parecía que estaba en el centro de una gran oreja, que escuchaba el universo de estrellas. Y también que oía una música callada, pero aun así muy impresionante, que le llegaba muy adentro, al alma.

En esas noches solía soñar cosas especialmente hermosas.

Y quien ahora siga creyendo que el escuchar no tiene nada de especial, que pruebe, a ver si sabe hacerlo tan bien.

Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende.
Canto ilustrado tomado de Nick of Time