The crimson stars were burning magnificently

Once upon a time in the spring,

The birds were singing in a chorus

The songs were loud;

And played with the rays, with the clear gem

The morning dew,

And smiled with a spring greeting

The beauty of nature.

The magnificent rose was burning proudly,

The best of all flowers

With its color and fragrance

Decorated the garden.

And the nightingale sang to the beautiful rose

Sang so sweetly to the rose,

With a lovely voice, a singer of charm

He nurtured the gardens;

He praised the evening dawn with a farewell,

That shone above,

And sang even louder to greet

To the early dawn...

He has already flown away like a bird of prey,

The time of spring

The autumn is cold, the autumn is free

It reigns here.

The autumn night is falling quietly

It is a sad hour;

The moon is colder and colder;

The echo is far away

The owl's cry is the only one.

The grove is mute.

Where is the nightingale, where is the nightingale's singing?

Oh, where is the nightingale?

He has flown away to the wilderness, where spring is eternal,

An inspired singer.

His face is always beautiful there,

There is a warm breeze;

All is deaf and dull in the vastness,

My sad grove!

The singer has left you in sorrow and grief,

You and your native land.

Such silence now reigns everywhere.

Only in the dry leaves

The wind sighs like a dryad grieving,

With deafening regret.

Why don't I have a fiery word?

Why don't I have a fiery word?

Maybe that sincere, hot speech

Could have broken the winter!

And would always be spread in the grove

A clear and loud

Song, and would have blossomed in the native land

A new spring would have blossomed in my native land.

Even if I had nightingale wings,

And my own will

I would not leave you alone,

My country!

The crimson stars were burning magnificently

Once upon a time in the spring,

The birds were singing in a chorus

The songs were loud;

And played with the rays, with the clear gem

The morning dew,

And smiled with a spring greeting

The beauty of nature.

The magnificent rose was burning proudly,

The best of all flowers

With its color and fragrance

Decorated the garden.

And the nightingale sang to the beautiful rose

Sang so sweetly to the rose,

With a lovely voice, a singer of charm

He nurtured the gardens;

He praised the evening dawn with a farewell,

That shone above,

And sang even louder to greet

To the early dawn...

He has already flown away like a bird of prey,

The time of spring

The autumn is cold, the autumn is free

It reigns here.

The autumn night is falling quietly

It is a sad hour;

The moon is colder and colder;

The echo is far away

The owl's cry is the only one.

The grove is mute.

Where is the nightingale, where is the nightingale's singing?

Oh, where is the nightingale?

He has flown away to the wilderness, where spring is eternal,

An inspired singer.

His face is always beautiful there,

There is a warm breeze;

All is deaf and dull in the vastness,

My sad grove!

The singer has left you in sorrow and grief,

You and your native land.

Such silence now reigns everywhere.

Only in the dry leaves

The wind sighs like a dryad grieving,

With deafening regret.

Why don't I have a fiery word?

Why don't I have a fiery word?

Maybe that sincere, hot speech

Could have broken the winter!

And would always be spread in the grove

A clear and loud

Song, and would have blossomed in the native land

A new spring would have blossomed in my native land.

Even if I had nightingale wings,

And my own will

I would not leave you alone,

My country!