This garden is mine, my own garden, a nightingale I am, within it I sing,
My head, the narcissus's gaze, my feet, the hyacinth's tresses, I bring.
This garden is mine, my own garden, a nightingale I am, within it I sing.
The flame that burns bright in the holy halls, here, too, its light does gleam,
From every corner, a river of modesty, a delicate, flowing dream.
This is the hand of the mad, the madmen's dance, a gathering of lovers true,
A city woven of stories, a kingdom of longings, forever new.
Nature has taught us, a master's grace, where soaring spirits reside,
Here, we sing of loyalty, a song of love, where passion cannot hide.
This garden is mine, my own garden, a nightingale I am, within it I sing,
My head, the narcissus's gaze, my feet, the hyacinth's tresses, I bring.
This garden is mine, my own garden, a nightingale I am, within it I sing.
In this gathering, I have drawn the lines, in this gathering, I've shattered the cup,
In this gathering, I have laid down my eyes, this gathering, has lifted me up.
Each evening, a night of joy, each night, a dawn of light, it would seem,
The burning of the world, the music of all worlds, a vibrant, shared dream.
The burden of atoms, a thousand times, bows down to the heavens' height,
With my own eyes, I have witnessed here, the sacred, stunning flight.
This garden is mine, my own garden, a nightingale I am, within it I sing,
My head, the narcissus's gaze, my feet, the hyacinth's tresses, I bring.
This garden is mine, my own garden, a nightingale I am, within it I sing.
The clouds that rise from this very place, shall shower upon the world's face,
And where it rains, it pours, on every soul, in every time and space.
On every heart, upon every hand, on every sleeve, it shall descend,
Upon my garden, it shall weep, on other gardens, it will extend.
On every city, on every joy, on every palace of delight, it pours,
This cloud has always rained, a blessing found, and always shall it be ours.
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