Tomorrow, O nightingale, when you sing,

and the boulders grow tender at the song,

and in its thicket a branch bends

toward the strains, and an ear of wheat twists its neck,

and hill draws close to hill,

drunken, asking after its own state,

and it is said: From where? — then say: I came from

two eyes than which none is more radiant, none more beautiful.

From the collection "Rindala"