In deze druppel
die hangt aan een druivenblad
is zo veel te zien.

De postbode komt
met een tas vol brieven
maar geeft maar een brief.

Zonder pen en papier is er geen dag,
En zonder schrijven is er geen gelach.
Ookal was ik ziek en lag ik op bed,
Was het nooit mijn schrijvende hand die lag.

Sessizlik kovulur; bir yıldırım duyar yağmur,
Cennetten ince inciler gibi akar yağmur.

Aleme mal ile mülk sormadan ikram eder,
Birden gelir, birden verir, birden kaçar yağmur.

Beni terk ederse güneş ya terk ederse ay,
Hüzünlü yalnızlıkta beni kucaklar yağmur.

Semaların ahları sessiz sessiz duyarım,
Hüzün, bereket dünya içine katar yağmur.

Görmez açık elin renkleri ya işleri,
Güle kör, dikene kör; zira kör ağlar yağmur.

Efendi dervişe, namusuz katile verir,
Bilmez bir dindar ya bilmez bir günahkar yağmur.

Allahın Rahmeti sır gibi duyulmaz bazen,
Sessiz şakır şakır, ıslak ıslak akar yağmur.

El açık Rahmet Deryası semada bulunur,
Mis Gül Efendisi gibi Rahmet saçar yağmur.

Beyond that bitter, grudging and vile lip,
Who only spews and is covered with pride,
There lies more when you make it with love flip,
Like an old coin who has another side.

This place,
Cianwood City,
is a place to relax,
to listen to the winds and waves
at noon.

The singer takes her seat,
In the lifeless and empty room
All alone in silence,
Where the dull gray walls spread the gloom.

Her lips hold rosewater,
And prepare calmly to bestow
Rain upon these wastelands,
To turn it into a meadow.

As the keys are fondled
By fingers like the beams of the moon,
The strings begin to hum
A soothing and sonorous tune.

In chimes of ecstasy,
She narrates the soul's foreign tale,
And releases freely
From out her soul the nightingale.