The nightingale shouted from parting on the flower, the flower of the lovers was clothed with grief, in the grass there was a tumult at the foot of each flower of the tulip nightingale, as it blew the hand of the broken gardener, the wind that had freshened my flower from the sap, it
struck the ears of the nightingales flower, this tune was like the hand of the anthologist, tears were shed from him, my heart was separated from you, I took him to the well of sorrow, I dug the earth, I cut my bond, I saw the persecution of the anthology from the hand of sorrow. I groaned like a bud until I laughed,
like a tulip, Madyan was a cup of yara, like a respite from the sky, we hated the era of the sphere of the turkeys wheel, hundreds like you and me, thorns and tongues in front of the tavern, a wise advice from a cup to sit in every circulation of water, the heart is on the sea, the woman of the nightingale, get up from the place to the
heart, if you have sorrow, what a solitude of your soul, what a companion you have , be a happy seeker, be a scholar. Youve got a happy world.
