Friend, why is my love so cross with me
That he has chosen to live in fairylands?
To whom shall I reveal my agony?

He left to roam in meadows of flowers.
When he rested for a moment under the pomegranate trees,
Bright buds burst into ecstatic bloom.

When lovers' hearts were put up for sale,
The bidding was so brisk in the market of love
That sweet-bosomed belle got eleven for a cowry!

The belle, far gone on jewels and trinkets,
Adorned herself in her splendid room,
Till the storm of love ended this madness of youth.

When she straightened the coils of her lovely curls,
Light dived into her pearls to hide,
And breezes wafted her fragrance to flowers.

Her lovely face, under the canopy of curls,
Shone like a king, flanked by his guards,
Or like the radiant moon at the dead of night.

My mind, like one roaming in the desolation
Of forests, mountains and appalling wastes,
Suffered an agony I cannot describe.

A flower among thorns, who know not his worth,
Is like a wise man lost among fools.
Born of the same mother, they think they're equal!

In the agony of separation, I visited faqirs,
Tied votive rags in various shrines,
Sought him on dark nights in the pir's abode.

Plant my heart in a flower vase,
For i. grew where the fragrant hyacinths bloom,
Remaining faithful to the opening buds

Mir's old wine fills new cups now.
Stocks have reached all taverns for sale.
Pour it into glasses, Mahjoor, and serve!