Nightingales sitting high up in the sky,
Higher than her eyes could reach.
Poor little thing, she didn’t get out much,
That even the gentle breeze amuses her.
Rules, rules. She was tired of it,
For she never knew to make her own.
Everytime a tear rolls down her cheek,
She would look up at the sky to see
Nothing but an old huge ceiling.
Little did they know, that she’ll break out,
For they sent all the men to find her.
She ran to keep up with the wind,
Surprised she was to see the strength built-in.
The peeking sun had stopped her like a barricade.
Oh my, the honey-coloured eyes she had that shone,
Like a diamond reflecting golden light.
She was awestruck by the phenomenon,
A minute of heaven, and the rains of hell starts.