Like a stone, hangs on my neck that melancholy damned. Why does any word today so badly hurt and grieve me? It because of somewhere here the Gypsies made their camp, And they trouble my heart and soul each evening. And the poplars sing just like the strings. Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks! And just like the guitar, the earth rings. Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks! Iíll sink down my melancholy, steal at least a night - There are campfires in the field that give me lucid signals. Iíll rend what impedes me and throw fragments into fire, Only be ye, Gypsies, my assistants! And let I drink away all my things. Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks! How I love when a blithe Gypsy sings. Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks! All what sleeps in me will be again roused with the strings, Where allís covered with the weeds, there will be flowers wreathing! It doesnít matter that Iíll be condemned by pious things, Iíve decided not to leave you, Gypsies! Thou noose shaltnít reach me in the sticks! Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks! Ring, my song, ímidst the forests and fields! Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!
© Akbar Muhammad. Translation, 2015
(akbarmuhammad.awardspace.co.uk)