The Nightingale was a beautiful sweet summer night, the moon was high in the sky and so bright that you could think she polished herself for some special occasion.

That very night I was being cradled by the music of my friend the nightingale when something started to tickle me.

The nightingale broke his song and, in the suddenly silent air, the only thing I could hear were sights of pain. The tickling was not ceased but it slowly became less acute and when it stopped also the sights were gone.

The nightingale started a new sad song, I looked down at my limbs and, in the moonlight, I saw the shadow of a hanged man.


From: The Olive Tree Tales, n.2