Where are you roaming, Turan, even in deep night
In the dust of the road?  Ah, in deep night
    Fitne keeps watch alone.
 
Keeps watch alone, yearning for you, raging one;
You, who usually sought peace so gladly
    Upon Fitne's heart.
 
    Where is now the flaming yearning
That, gleaming forth from your glances,
Powerfully suffused me,
When, trembling, I looked into your eyes,
When I pressed against my breast the arm
That in victory won the happy woman?--
 
    Turan, your Fitne is languishing,
Languishing, burning, and longing only for you,
And, like the sand of the desert, you remain
Unyielding to the glow of her love.
 
    Turan, does not my longing call you,
Turan, does not my mute misery call you,
Does not my pain and my lamenting call
You back to Fitne?--
 
    My tears have been dried up
By the fervent burning of my heart;
My sighs, my laments
Vanish into the desolate night.