At the moment when flowers are dancing,
The nightingale sings in gardens secluded.
Each of its tunes sounds like the whistling wind
To those seen as foreigners in their native land.

It cries, like my ceaseless wails and laments,
Each resonates, high and low through the slopes.
It bemoans all night until the sun rises,
Each breath comes out as a burning sigh.

On virgin trees untouched by man’s hand,
It groans unceasingly for a lifetime,
And sheds tears, full of grief; but who is there
To appreciate it, to sympathize with its pains?