A voice calls over the sinking pits and treacherous calm of the marsh. Some little bird sings, I think, and for the distance and the rushes and the reeds, and for whatever breezes passing through their bending stalks, it sounds, almost, like a human song, a woman’s voice. That melancholy air, were it a call for help, yes, we would risk our lives. Have I not risked my life even for an ass? No, but when she calls, when that bird sings so distantly, he who answers does not come back out. Listen, now, if there are words, faintly, what does she say? No shout, no plea, but only soft twitterings. See, birds cannot speak, leastways, not around here. Listen, if by imagination we think we hear words, distant, diffused, something we impart to meaningless nature, what do you think you can almost hear? It reminds me, almost, more the rhythm, I think, bringing out the memory, of my mother’s lullaby.
Lullaby
Tale Told 