I have seen the nightingale
Singing in the moonlight
Free, the nightingale
Did not know that upon him I spied
He interrupts himself at times
His head inclined
As if he's listening
Within himself to the length
Of a note that's died down
Then swelling up his throat
He takes his song again
With all his might
His head thrown back
The picture of amorous despair
He sings just to sing
He sings such lovely things
That he does not know
Anymore what it was
That they were meant to say
But I can still hear through
The melancholy notes
The piping of a flute
The quivering, crystalline trills
In clear vigorous cries
I can still hear the first
Innocent and frightened
Song of the nightingale
Caught within
The tendrils of the vine