In the wide sea of the desert,
There by the edge of the hill stands
A solitary tent erected;
It protects from the raging of the storm
And the hot burning of the sun.
 
    A narrow moat
Encircles it round about,
And, tightly woven together with care,
Thorns are piled up,
A deterrent to wild beasts.
 
    Two bowls, a grinding-mill,
A kettle stand therein,
And plain coverings are spread out
Softly toward all sides
Upon the sandy floor.
 
    There dwells the beautiful Fitne,
Far from every prying gaze;
There she finds rest and peace,
Alone, secluded;
Nothing disturbs her quiet happiness.
 
    Of what benefit to her love
Is the whole wide world?
For with the coming of every evening,
Assuaging her pains of longing,
Turan returns to the tent.
 
    The rich spoils of the day
He carries in his strong arms;
She loosens his weaponry,
She herself lifts him from the horse
So faithfully, so lovingly warm.
 
    She does not lament for her mother,
Not for her brothers;
All pains are forgotten;
She rests upon Turan's heart,
In the light of his love.