O Nightingale, thou who trills through green hills of glassy
Stature, wouldst thou please me with thine unearthly call?
Am I to be misjudged,
And ne'er be remembered by your haunting wing
From which bloody feathers fall?
As the scent
Of ozone and liquor hang in the wind, a precursor
To your demise, I sing across the valley towards thine wings.
Let not my humble yearn, my drunken pleas,
Be denied, for thou art the light within mine eyes,
O Nightingale.
Thou, who sing the music of the night and day,
O Nightingale, leave me to my honest yearn, my drunken pleas,
As thine trills fill up the night
And thine haunted wings take flight
Along the breeze.
