The Whippoorwill
by RavenoftheBlack
Status: Public
Word Count: 315


The Whippoorwill

Above the tearful sobs of those who loved,
Below the maddened keen of those who've lost,
And cries of hearts that tragedy has shoved
Beyond the brink of sorrow's deepest cost,

There lie the songs that fly like final breaths,
When forced through lips by mortals' fatal surge,
These melodies that herald countless deaths,
Will craft their verses formed into a dirge.

So many of these songs are known so well,
That every land and every people know
The purpose their appearance tries to tell;
The aching hearts their singers seek to show.

A faithful dog, or purring, loving cat,
Will sing farewell when their companions die,
And pace about the place their masters sat,
To tell the world they wish that they could cry.

And even spirits mourn when mortals pass,
And show their faces, wrapped in veils and shawls,
To sing for every fallen lad or lass
Who's led beyond by eerie banshee calls.

But one that's never viewed in proper light,
The one that sends a shiver with its skill,
The song which truly bids the soul to flight,
Is from the unassuming Whippoorwill.

Whenever mortal coils shuffle loose,
The Whippoorwill is singing somewhere near,
And whether lost to illness or the noose,
That life has nothing further then to fear.

But, oh, this bird sings not because it must,
It sings to give its blessing to the dead,
But if it wished that soul returned to dust,
It need but keep its tune within its head.

The Whippoorwill, most cruel of all the birds,
To those it deems unworthy or unfit,
It will ignore not kind nor hateful words,
That everyone who dies has said to it.

Our mortal fate is sealed when we are born,
For always something comes intent to kill,
But what becomes of us when life is shorn,
Lie deep within the song of Whippoorwill.