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 shed tears, full of grief; but who is there

To appreciate it, to sympathize with its pains?