Last night, returning from the warm hamam,
I passed by the garden of the old imam,
And there, in the garden, in the shade of a jasmine,
with a pitcher in her hand stood Emina.
I offered her salaam, but by my faith,
Beautiful Emina wouldn’t even hear it.
Instead, scooping water in her silver pitcher,
Around the garden she went to water the roses.
A wind blew from the branches down her lovely shoulders
Unraveling those thick braids of hers.
Her hair gave off a scent of blue hyacinths,
Making me giddy and confused!
I nearly stumbled, I swear by my faith,
But beautiful Emina didn’t come to me.
She only gave me a frowning look,
Not caring, the naughty one, that I’m crazy for her!
And the way she walks and her shoulders move . . .
Not even a hodja’s amulet could help me!
What beauty! By my Muslim faith I could swear,
She wouldn’t be ashamed if she were at the sultan’s!
The old poet has died, Emina has died
The empty garden of jasmine was left behind
The pitcher is broken
The flowers have withered
The song about Emina, will never die.