Tamashagar
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I, bewildered nightingale, wander around in the mountains,
Because my fiendish stepmother killed my brother
And buried him under the narenj tree in our garden.
fragment
It was not until
the nightly
hours, when I, drunk and confused by the delicious fragrance of the
flowers of the narenj,
heard
whispers and the spring breeze petted my feathers softly and
made them go up and down,
that I
realized that I
had become a nightingale and had my nest on a branch of the narenj
tree in our garden. The tree
that took
my brother.
I was tired, exhausted.
Had
I
flown to faraway
places, above
landscapes
far from here? I remembered
the
mourning for my
brother and the never-ending stream
of
tears
that
came.
Now I'm
sitting
here, in this beautiful narenj,
while
his voice
is
caressing my
ears. A soft murmur
speaks of
the love of his stepmother for him and the hatred
that replaced it
when she did not
get her way,
and of
his secret love
for the beautiful Nahal, the girl next door. The murmur sounds like
the sweet melody of a babbling brook but it tells time and again the
tragic story of the stepmother who was in love with him and her
harshness, how she
killed him and
buried him
under the tree.