Not much have I narrated this story,
Who's about glee and about worry.

I became quiet after seeing her,
This bluesy woe; o soul, this does vary.

We are the nightingales of this garden,
We are the poets, wielding poetry.

This crafted work is veiling prejudice,
I don't see the hands crafting embroidery.

Sometimes a love, sometimes a description,
Mâhî's drawing a gleamy gallery.