I love to hear the beat of her voice on my left eardrum,
though she who speaks so sweetly to me is dumb;
I still hear her as loud as the old church choir sings and
can’t help but dance to the rhythmic flames her fire springs.

The world shouts too loudly for them to hear her,
So she comes to my neck of the woods, expecting serenity to occur;
but, my dear, peace does not fly with me
‘cause I was made to be hated, like the bourgeoisie.

Oh glorious nightingale, please go away from here,
I neither have branches nor crumbs to spare;
This doom is for birds who withstood heaven.
You, beautiful bird, are not a raven.

I am in love with you, sweet nightingale and
would love for us to fly over the Orchard Lake in Carbondale,
except for the price of such love is the equivalence of thirty-one Clydesdale;
so goodnight and goodbye, my sweet nightingale.