Oh little bird, bulbuli,
At a tiny rose-garden, hoping for whom,
A song you sing, proffering whose melody?
It's not yours, the cares or stress;
There exists a nest and a sky immense.
Go on singing, giving a whistle,
All pained burdens forgetting.
The rose, of yourself it is fond;
Petals bright, smiling it looks on.
Body foments a sweet pollen,
Colored days overflowing.
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Even the tiny nightingale serves to brighten life.
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