Everyone is asking if the legendary nightingale in the book exists. They think the marvelous bird is the writer’s invention, but I know better. I hear the nightingale singing in the woods when I take meals home to my sick mother, and, at the end of the day when I rest under a tree, the nightingale sings to me. She brings tears to my eyes, and I feel as if my poor old mother were kissing me.
The bird is a pool of moonlight in my endless, routine days. Her song lifts me up and gives me wings.