The bird of twilight began to sing to the fading rose;
by dawn his pain had brought his complaint to a close:
She promises herself only when she is not to be found;
and is always busy with others when parading around!
With the sky’s blushing cheek and the rose’s widening petals,
the bolbol’s lament fell mute amid the morn’s noisy prattle.
The beloved’s vanity is such, she must always be missed;
the lover’s ardor is such, her distant lips must be kissed!
The lover must be resigned to a tight girdle of thorns,
to embrace love’s arms and hope to be from pretense torn.
Bolbol, keep on singing as day gives way to dark;
the pain of your voice will carry your song to its mark.
Darvish sings to the beloved with thorns wrapping his heart;
his song is written with blood, but she remains far apart.
