A nightingale is singing tonight. I wish I could sit next to him under the canopy of the dark blue sky,

to look at the summer stars and to listen to its song. To the song of eternal presence, the song of myriads of people, myriads of places, myriads of feelings, myriads of ancient stories. Stories of the distant ocean (ohh I  don't remember how it feels  like to  be at the sea shore), stories of deserts, stories of mountains,  stories of love, stories of hatred, stories of eternal contemplation...        Stories that wind whispers in the clouds somewhere above, where the blueness of the sky is getting darker and darker. Stories of air, this eternal amazing substance, that keeps all the memories of the clouds sailing in it, and all the memories of the trees contributing to it.                                               There is a book of the trees, with the portraits of billions trees that have ever existed. These noble wooden beings are   full of silence and grace, full of compassion and love. Trees have so much love in them. They just hide it, seeming to be  unflappable, but they radiate love all around them. They keep all the stories of the skies and they sing all the songs of the skies.  They sing hymns of the rain and the thunder, lullaby  of the starry skies, play  flutes of the early morning and fanfars of the sunset.                                                             The trees  see so many dreams while sleeping under the snow cover, warm and sunny dreams, visions of the blooming time of enchanting fragrances, dreams of the golden sunlight in the spring, dreams of  the whole planet covered with the ancient trees again. Dreams of the green and pure Earth, with the crystalline air in its pristine untoched state. Dreams of the Earth  revived.                                                                    The nightingale was singing his gentle lullaby, I was napping, an old robenia tree was peeping into my window and I could hear her whisper in my dreams.