Last night, as I was returning from
    the warm bath, I passed by the
    garden of the old imam - the muslim
    priest.  There in the garden, with a
    silver pitcher in her hand, stood his
    daughter Emina.  I greeted her, but
    she paid me no attention, and went
    about carrying water to the thirsty

    Ah, what beauty!  The way she
    stood, the way she walked, she
    would not be ashamed in the
    palace of the sultan!

    A wind blew down through the
    branches, freeing a lock of her
    heavy hair and bringing me the
    smell of blue hyacinths.  I felt dizzy,
    I almost stumbled ...

    Well, there really was an Emina, and the poet
    Aleksa Santic really did see her in her father's
    garden about 1900.  She married, had children,
    and when she died about 1950, another poet
    added this last verse:

    The old poet is dead, Emina is gone.  The garden
    is deserted, the flowers have withered, the pitcher
    is broken ... but this song will live forever.