The nightingale raises his head, drugged with passion,Pouring the oil of earthly love in such a fashionThat the other birds shaded with his song, grow mute.The leaping mysteries of his melodies are acute.'I know the secrets of Love, I am their piper,'He sings, 'I seek a David with broken heart to decipherTheir plaintive barbs, I inspire the yearning flute,The daemon of the plucked conversation of the lute.The roses are dissolved into fragrance by my song,Hearts are torn with its sobbing tone, broken alongThe fault lines of longing filled with desire's wrong.My music is like the sky's black ocean, I stealThe listener's reason, the world becomes the sealOf dreams for chosen lovers, where only the roseIs certain. I cannot go further, I am lame, and exposeMy anchored soul to the divine Way.My love for the rose is sufficient, I shall stayIn the vicinity of its petalled image, I needNo more, it blooms for me the rose, my seed.The hoopoe replies: 'You love the rose without thought.Nightingale, your foolish song is caughtBy the rose's thorns, it is a passing thing.Velvet petal, perfume's repose bringYou pleasure, yes, but sorrow tooFor the rose's beauty is shallow: fewEscape winter's frost. To seek the WayRelease yourself from this love that lasts a day.The bud nurtures its own demise as day nurtures night.Groom yourself, pluck the deadly rose from your sight.