Her face and features, rose and tulip tinted,
Were framed in sable locks. She gathered violets.
How well the colours blend with eagle features,
When on her creamy breast there nestle violets!

Her body carved from marble, locks of black
And silky waves, can steal your heart, alack!
And like Medjnun, you shall not get it back,
She'll pin it to her breast mid purple violets.

At eighteen summers she has just begun
To count the many hearts that she has won.
O'er hills she walks in beauty shared by none.
Mid rustling leaves and fragrant whispering violets.

Display your limbs and body, warm and nude,
But never let my rival's glance intrude,
Nor tolerate his touches harsh and crude. . . .
Unworthy hands should never pluck sweet violets.

When one beholds her scintillating grace
The blood like wine makes heart-beats throb apace,
And when Vagif composes verses to her face
The first and final words should be sweet violets.

Translated by Tom Botting

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