Allured by your elegant grace,
T wandered over many a desolate place
To understand the maddening mystery
Of your superb craftsmanship.

No poor man's cry for justice
Is allowed to reach your ears.
Shouldn't you, the flower, tune your ears
To the cry of the bulbul's heart?

Have patience! Flowers always bloom
When the time is ripe;
They don't wait for invitations
And petitions from the filed.

The song of the swallows woke me up
Well before early dawn.
I understood that winter's gone
And effulgent spring has come.

What to one are pleasure fields,
When riven by grief and pain?
That's why the poppy doesn't choose
To stay in flower bed.

If they never have been able
To put their own house in order,
How can they ever claim to lend
A helping hand to others?

Rise from your humble station,
Choose your place on the heights,
For the sun's lustre falls first
On rocks on mountain tops.

When the Son of Man bore the cross,
With the Word of God on his lips,
It was evident that in this world
Cruelty respects no faith!

Who knows whence came the morning breeze,
And why so late at night,
Moving with slow, deliberate steps,
Sprinkling scent on the scarves of flowers!

He chose to remain away from me -
He, whom I had dearly bought
For two of my costly jewels,
And two cups of the wine of love!

When the god of beauty came here
To distribute his bonty,
He gav diamonds to simple stones,
And only thorns to the flowers.

When Mahjoor is really free,
And enters the flower fields,
Flowers will blaze their torches,
And poshinools tune up their lyres.