Visal

The flower whose search, O Nightingale, would make me pine, By blessed fate, that very flower is finally mine.

I was in torment, and I made the garden grieve; When your rich song I heard, in shame I'd take my leave.

No restless heart was mine, but quicksilver instead, Impatient for love's sweet offense, my spirit sped.

In the assembly of flowers, my failure was renowned; My morning was a mirror where the darkest night was found.

Within my blood-filled breast, each breath became a blade, Beneath my silence, Judgment's chaos was arrayed.

That turmoil in my soul has vanished from its place, My song no longer burdens this green, flowered space.

From passion's heat, my blisters have themselves become the flame, My cries of anguish now with lightning speak their name.

The lustre of this love makes my dark dust a mirror bright, And in it shines the image of my timeless friend's own light.

By entering chains, I found my liberty, My home was built upon the wreck of me.

By this sun's radiant glow, my own star brightly shines, Before whose path's dust, even the pale moonlight declines.

You cast a single glance, and taught surrender's art, O blessed day, that set a fire to my worthless heart!