1. O Hind, the nightingale has grown fond of the rose bush
He sings, so the branches clap and are delighted

2. The flowers fall in love with his sweet singing
So when he trills, a star shines from every bud

3. The branch and leaves are his audience
What does the breeze make of them murmuring?

4. He is the birds' poet, not arrogant
No insolence, nor enamored of pomp

5. And when dawn gleams from his smiling lips
He calls out to the birds' regiments “Prepare!”

6. So I heard the birds' music over
The day comes and goes to its melodies