Above my bed rises a tree,
The young nightingale sings there, it seems;
She sings of naught but love -
I hear it even in my dreams.

Death, it is but a cool night,
And life is a sultry day.
It darkens, I slumber now,
Wearied with day's fading light.

Above my bed a tree grows near,
In its bough the young nightingale
Sings of love, of naught but love,
Which, even in my dream, I hear.

translated by an unknown person

translated by Joseph Massaad