When the moon rises, the nightingale flies to the rose tree and presses its chest against the spikes.
She held spikes in her chest and sang all night. The cold moon also looked down and listened. The nightingale sang all night, the spikes piercing deeper and deeper into her chest, and the blood of her life slowly drained.
The nightingale first sang about the birth of love in the hearts of a young boy and girl, and a miraculous flower blossomed on the highest branch of the rose.
As the nightingale's song continues to be sung one by one, the petals open one by one. The flower was at first pale, like a mist hanging over a river—as pale as the feet of the morning sun, as silver as the wings of the dawn.
The flower that blooms on the highest branch of the rose tree is like the shadow of a rose in a pond and a silver mirror.
But the rose tree told the nightingale to press the spikes deeper. "Little nightingale, press deeper." The rose tree cried, "Otherwise the rose has not been made, and the day will come." ”
The nightingale pressed the spikes deeper, and her singing became louder and louder, and she was singing about the love in the hearts of a young man and a woman.
The petals of the rose glowed a delicate red glow, like the red glow on the groom's face when he kissed the bride. But the rose's spikes had not yet pierced the heart of the nightingale, and the rose's heart was still white. Only the nightingale's heart can dye the heart of the red rose.
Rose told the nightingale to press the spikes deeper. "Little nightingale, press deeper." Rose cried, "Or the rose will come before it is made." ”
The nightingale pressed the spikes deeper again. The spike touched her heart, and a sharp pain spread throughout her body.
How sharp the pain was, and her song became so fanatical, she sang love that was perfected by death, love that would not die in the grave.
This miraculous rose turned crimson red, like the morning glow of the East. Not only are the petals of the outer ring crimson, but the heart of the rose is like a ruby.
But the nightingale's voice became faint, and her little wings began to flutter, a thin layer of blindfolding her eyes. Her singing voice grew weaker and weaker, and she felt something choke her throat.
At this time the nightingale erupted into one last burst of song. The snow-white moon heard the song and forgot that dawn had arrived and drowned in the sky.
The red rose heard the song, trembled with ecstasy, and opened the petals in the cold morning air.
The Goddess echo brings the song back to her purple cave in the hills and awakens the sleeping shepherd boy from her dream. The song drifted through the reeds on the banks of the river, and the reeds brought their message to the sea.
"Look, look!" The rose tree cried, "The rose has been made." But Nightingale did not answer, for she had fallen to her death in the tall grass, and she still had the spike in her heart.
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