Incantations

Last night nightingale you sang until your throat bled, you filtered the incantations of the dead and hung the notes on a lunar thread. Next evening the thrush sang your song and added his own, he chanted carols heard in nightmares and the prayers of twilight drifters. This third night I heard your incantations rise from the lips of the dead, with the moon we harmonised and the tides of ecstasy washed over the town. Now the nightingale and thrush listen and wait for the living to sing and twilight to violate versions of their song.