How delicate your flesh, as subtle as the rose,
As fragrant as the air when springtide lilac blows,
And yet your hue, like mine, a saffron tint now shows
Do torments rack your heart, poor little shamama?

So shapely and so tender—those graces both you claim,
But since my love has beauty far beyond acclaim
I fear that you would know the taste of bitter shame
If placed beside her breast, smooth, rounded, shamama.

My loved one's shamama is more than honey-sweet,
And if the angels saw, they'd kiss her very feet.
Fine marble is her breast—no whiter could one meet.
With sighs our hearts it wounds, o sweetest shamama.

I falter when I see my love beside her door.
My mind is overcast and I know nothing more.
Why should she make Vagif with childish tears implore
That comfort she should give with her sweet shamama?

[1] Shamama—a small deliciously flavoured melon.

Translated by Tom Botting

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