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.