I took a deep breathe in and dreamed in the lazy sun. I was the daughter of two worlds. Night and Day. Sun and Moon. The folks called me Nightingale, besides the obvious. But I wondered what it would be like to live in the clouds every, single day. I felt my skin burn but cool. The trees whistled in the breeze, as soft sweet breeze where you could hear the music playing through. Desperate and dried, winter was, or so my mother told me. Spring was here alas and I would play my days with the guitar. It swift strings moving us all through the seasons.
I got up and wiped my long dress off where the grass stained it. Concrete surrounded the walls and this tiny pasture was my only escape. I was a goddess, but in this world I was a witch. A witch who deserved to be locked up her whole life. I lost my education and began to learn from the stars. They gave you signs and whispered quiet lessons to your ears.
They didn't teach you math or literacy, but the history and the stories of the skies. The muses and the battles, and when Greece was under the power of Zeus. They were like truthful bedtime stories that put you to sleep, but in the good way. They made you go off into a land where you belonged and did not have to fake an acceptance. It was the differences that counted there. Most were forgiven but others were banished. It was the way of the world.
Now I lived on Earth in a grey building with a child who moans to her death. You can hear her tell you that you, the witch, will die with the rest of them. The rest of the children who could never come up to the skies and stayed in the black holes. It was a desperate desire to fly off.
When I came back into the jails, I laid down and watched as the rats scattered across the floor looking for anything they could get their hands on. Dirty scoundrels. The stories said that rats were cursed Gods who had lost their shine. They no longer did what was right and left marks upon those that they loved. I wondered if it was really true, and yet it made sense.
I found myself drifting off into a sunset, and I was lying in a boat lost, but not.
Then I heard the whispers of my ancestors,
Nightingale, Nightingale, of the night and the sun. Nightingale, lost in a river going down to the temple. Athens calls, Athens calls, hear the cries of your people in the circle....
I woke up not remembering, but only hearing the screams of a fire. I walked to the edge of the gate and saw the flames. They flew across the floor. When they touched me they did not burn, but they calmed my nerves. I was going home...or so I thought.
I prayed though before I left, that my sisters would leave in peace and that the rats would someday understand their curse.
Spring, a new beginning. Where a small brown seed turns into a bright, erratic, miracle.
Where beauty that was not thought to be there, comes out. And even then, you know who you are.
