Out of the blue

Among green roses, with the sun in my face (although sometimes I still prefer the rain) I was finally coming out when this little nightingale comes to tell me all about that time when she looked at her reflection and thought she was a bluebird and waited for a while... waited for a consort who would sing with her to the dawn.
But after a while of waiting, the impatient curious nightingale decides it is time to leave this place and sets off to distant lands and some strange places with not a thing but her songs and leaving nothing behind. So naive little nightingale learned the proper songs and started to forget the old ones and it would be a nice thing to say that everything was going well, but as it happened the nightly melancholic mood still leaked through her now cheerful tunes making them sound rather eerie even to the brightest of the skies. And yet, this stubborn pretty nightingale refused to give up hope and kept singing until one particular day someone sang back. Well, this song was nothing like any other song this auspicious but fumbling nightingale had heard before and it came from underneath the sycamore where taking shelter laid a skylark with a broken wing. It then occurred to our foolish weary bird that she could stay under the sycamore for a little while with her new friend and listen, and so she stayed... and listened... and so blissful was the moment that the day went by and twilight came and there, still, they remained. Only then, this moony nightingale remembered again her fondness for the night and the beauty of its sounds and stayed up all night, oblivious to the fact that this night would soon be past. Little nightingale however, assured me that this night, unlike any other night, bided until the wound healed and it was time to part.
And yet, when the morning came, poor little nightingale did not dare to fly that high and as she lost sight of her lark she thought of singing but she was out of breath and the sound was not loud enough...
Oh well, I was already going out you see, but after the story I think I will stay with my broken nightingale and her frail heart. She will sing and I will laugh and we'll get lost into the lighlessness that seems hollow, but who can really tell what we might find.