It was the nightingale, not the lark

When I opened the door a few days ago, nothing seemed to have changed. The books were the same in the shelves, the street was as quiet as ever. My neighbors children were crying when the time came for them to got to bed. The fir trees in front of the house are still dark green, silent and old. Sometimes a few people walk along the street but they walk fast and silent. the squirrels are still the kings of the woods and hedges, jumping upwards and downwards all day long. The vine branches are entwined along the windows and the windows are creaking as they ever did and always will do. The old black dog is still alive and the cats are as numerous as ever. The sage grows well and the peppermint too. The old piano with its slightly distorted D is still there waiting for my fingers to return. The challah waits to get into the oven as every friday and the neighbor from the house next door still drives a massive Landrover to do her weekend shopping. Everything seems to be the very same. But late in the evenings when the street slept I sat on the balcony with a cup of tea in my hands listening to a nightingale singing so bright, so clear and so full of longing that I could barely hear it for longer than five minutes. But I always listened and waited for her to start her sad and moving song. And so did I when I returned, leaving the doors of the balcony open to ensure I wouldn’t miss her. But the night remained silent, the night became a week and still today it seems that the nightingale has disappeared, sits on another tree, maybe singing another song. But here it is silent and I wish I would know a way to convince her to come back.

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