With its pain?
Fires unceasing sear my heart;
Ah, too long, too deep, the smart
To heal again.

When I'd pluck the roses sweet
Sharpest thorns my fingers greet;
Courage flies.
Since my love has humbled me,
Tyrant-like has troubled me,
'Spite my cries.
Health and joy have taken flight,
Prayer nor chant nor priestly rite
Do I prize.

Girl, my girl, my peerless one,
Radiant as Armenia's sun,
Beautiful Sanan!
Earth has none as fair as thou,
Nor can ages gone bestow
One like my Sanan.

Sixteen summers old is she,
Grace of slender pines has she,
Like the stars her eyes.
Lips, thrice blessed whom they kiss,
Brows as dark as hell's abyss,
And with sighs,
Her heart to win, her love alone,
What mighty prince from his high throne