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The crimson stars were burning magnificently Once upon a time in spring, The birds' chorus of love The forest vowels; And played with rays, with a clear gem Morning dew, And smiled with a spring greeting The beauty of nature. A magnificent rose was burning proudly, The best of all flowers With its colour and fragrance Decorated the garden. And the nightingale to the beautiful rose Sang so sweetly to the rose, With a lovely voice, a singer of charm He developed the gardens; he sang farewell to the evening dawn, That was burning above, And sang even louder to greet To the early dawn... He has already flown away like a bird, The time of spring Cold autumn, free autumn Reigns in our country. The autumn night is falling quietly The hour is sad; The moon is cooling its rays; The echo is far away The owl's cry is the only one; The grove is mute. Where is the nightingale? Where is the nightingale's song? Oh, where is it? He is gone! He has flown away to the wilderness, where spring is eternal, An inspired singer. There is a beautiful face there forever, There is a warm breeze; All is deaf and dull in the vastness. My grove is sad! The singer left you in sorrow and grief, You and your native land. Such silence now reigns everywhere. Only in the dry leaves The wind sighs, like a dryad grieving, With deafening regret. Why don't I have a fiery word? Why don't I have a fiery word? Perhaps that sincere, hot speech Could have broken the winter! And would always be spread in the grove A clear and loud Song, and would have blossomed in my native land A new spring would have blossomed in my native land. I wish I had nightingale wings, And my own will I would not leave you alone, My country!
