All night along there were nightingale singing,
The town was silent, and silent were homes,
All night along, white acacia blossoms
Made us obsessed with its sweet fragrant foam.

The garden'd been washed up by rain of the springtime,
The water that stayed in the ditches, was dark.
My godness, what a naive we were back then,
So young, so fresh, like trees in that park.

The years had gone, making us gray and withered,
Where is the purity of those blooming branches?
Only the snow and white storms of winter,
Us to remind of that sweet avalanche.

Now, when is windy, and the storm goes fiercely,
I feel with a new force while breaking in tears,
Bunches of sweetness, and the fragrant acacia,
Never are back, like my green early years,

The blossoms of fragrant and pure acacia,
Were as unique as my young tender years.