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.