She was called the Nightingale,
For her sweet voice.
Drunken with amazement,
for her sweet voice,
The world failed to hear,
what her words were!
Sorrows and pleases,
Filling her song,
And the end of every song,
The world applauded her,
A million years later,
Even today, her words live in the air,
Unheard by the horns and noises,
Of the busy world.
The sky still see,
her words struggle by,
The statue of hers at the main Park,
Still awaits for the poet
Who comes every day to her park,
And tell him to convey the world that,
'I loved him but my beautiful voice
Never had the privilege to be yours!'