Euphoria

Of the enchanted world Which tunes of rhythms A melancholy of beautiful knit Woven into reverberates A nightingale sits alone Bemoans the lost voice

Through the evilness, whimpered a grieved soul, of its groveness; an unending panorama. While pain snuggled, and exempting it, of its very existence; a sting of past was enough, to make it roar of nothingness.