The cage bird says, “Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands.”
Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, “Come closer, my love!”
The free bird cries, “It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage,”
The cage bird whispers, “Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.”
O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door, -how can I attend to my work this morning?
Show me how to braid up my hair; tell me what garment to put on.
Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he will not glance up once at my window; I know he will pass out of my sight in the twinkling of an eye; only the vanishing strain of the flute will come sobbing to me from afar.
But the young Prince will pass by our door, and I will put on my best for the moment.
O mother, the young Prince did pass by our door, and the morning sun flashed from his chariot.
I swept aside the veil from my face, I tore the ruby chain from my neck and flung it in his path.
Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he did not pick up my chain; I know it was crushed under his wheels leaving a red stain upon the dust, and no one knows what my gift was nor to whom.
But the young Prince did pass by our door, and I flung the jewel from my breast before his path.
When the lamp went out by my bed, I woke up with the early birds.
I sat at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair.
The young traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the morning.
A pearl chain was on his neck, and the sun’s ray fell on his crown. He stopped before my door and asked me with an eager cry, “Where is she?”
For very shame I could not say, “She is I, young traveller, she is I.”
It was dusk and the lamp was not lit.
I was listlessly braiding my hair.
The young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the setting sun.
His horses were foaming at the mouth, and there was dust on his grment.
He alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice, “Where is she?”
For very shame I could not say, “She is I, weary traveller, she is I.”
It is an April night. The lamp is burning in my room.
The breeze of the south comes gently. The noisy parrot sleeps in its cage.
My bodice is the colour of the peacock’s throat, and my mantle is green as young grass.
I sit upon the floor at the window watching the deserted street.
Through the dark night I keep humming, “She is I, despairing traveller, she is I.”
When I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly-I do not know how to quiet it.
When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light. I do not know how to hide it.
Let your work be, bride. Listen, the guest has come.
Do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the door?
See that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is not overhurried at meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the courtyard; the sky overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the door if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door when you meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your eyes in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him in.
Have no word with him if you are shy.
Have you not finished your work yet, bride? Listen, the guest has come.
Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed?
Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening service?
Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair, and done your toilet for the night?
O bride, do you hear, the guest has come?
Let your work be!
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If your braided hair has loosened, if the parting of your hair be not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do not mind.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
Come, with quick steps over the grass.
If the raddle come from your feet because of the dew, if the rings of bells upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop out of your chain, do not mind.
Come with quick steps over the grass.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?
Flocks of cranes fly up from the further river-bank and fitful gusts of wind rush over the heath.
The anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?
In vain you light your toilet lamp-it flickers and goes out in the wind.
Who can know that your eyelids have not been touched with lampblack? For your eyes are darker than rain-clouds.
In vain you light your toilet lamp-it goes out.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If the wreath is not woven, who cares; if the wrist-chain has not been linked, let it be.
The sky is overcast with clouds-it is late.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.
The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my heart.
Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.
If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float on the water, come, O come to my lake.
The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number.
Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from their nests.
Your veil will drop to your feet.
Come, O come to my lake if you must sit idle.
If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, O come to my lake.
Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover you and hide you.
