N i g h t i n g a l e
As I write this, I am at the River Lagan; it’s the first time listening to Nightingale, by the water’s edge.
As I sit, the row of trees behind me whisper and sigh; rowers’ blades cut against the current; and wheels-on-tracks screech within Central Station.
It gave me shivers to listen again — although I had also come out without a jumper.
Nightingale was written as an addressed response to the darkness I felt, and sometimes still feel.
Here, the idea of freedom is non-existent: the cluster chords of the piano breed only captivity and isolation.
It is a methodical and calculated composition — like a ghost going through the motions of human activity.
A door guards its room; I am the door, broken by the current, reduced to drift-wood.
Towards the conclusion of the song, there is a cry for a Hope, which is to be found within the Nightingale.
But hope soon becomes swallowed up, and quickly turns to a night in gale, or, a gale in the night; for this defines the struggle: hopefulness, caught in a web of despair.
This song speaks of an internal war. Last week was National Suicide Awareness week. Suicide is not selfish, nor does it need to be meticiulously understood — people just need to be listened to; people just need to feel they’re needed and that they cannot let go. One of the greatest, and hardest, things we can be in this world is a good friend; but this alone might just save a life.
l y r i c s :
Never knew my heart could beat so cold.
Never knew my lungs could feel so old.
Eyes closed, sheltered soul.
Running on the rocks i cut my knees,
Laughing in the face of open seas —
Young, fearless and free.
You hit this heart like a drum.
Wind, air in my lungs.
But as the sun sets and darkness seeps,
The cashing of the waves they knock, knock beat;
Who’s there, drumming me?
Wooden mind and a drifting heart,
this door’s now driftwood’s sum of parts –
Your current drowning art.
You hit this heart like a drum — beat.
Wind, air in my lungs — breathe.
Nightingale, sing.
Night gale, blow in my soul — sing —
You hit this heart like a drum — beat.
Wind, air in my lungs — breathe.
Oh Nightingale, sing to me