Last night, as I was returning from the warm hammam*
I passed the old imam's garden
And there, in the garden, under a jasmine tree
With a pitcher in her hand stood Emina
Oh, how beautiful she is! I swear to the imam,
She wouldn't care if she was in front of the Sultan.
And when she walks and moves her hips,
Not even the hodja's writing will help me.
I told her "Salem", but oh, my days
The beautiful Emina didn't even want to hear me
Instead, she poured water into her silver pitcher
Then went on to water roses
Through the tree branches wind blew
Untangling her thick braids over her back
Her hair smelled like blue hyacinths
And my head immediately went spinning
My love almost killed me, I swear
But the beautiful Emina never came to me
She only once shot me an angry look
And she didn't care, the thief, that I died for her.
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