My heart is consumed with longing,
Waiting for you, wasting away !
My life lies offered at your feet.
O bless it with your look of grace !

All flowers of the field, one after another -
Yemberzal, hyacinth, rose and masval -
Lay down their lives in adoration.

Each one enters the garden fully equipped
With his peculiar essence - the gul with fire,
The bulbul with the music of the heart.

Some souls in the garden are awake, while some
Are inebriated by delusions and passions -
The fountain heads of all strife !

Some have narrow horizons, some are wearing
Various fetters of the mind - and all lie trapped
In the snares spread by the superb hunter.

That the beloved will soon arrive
Fills the bulbul with delight, and all flowers
Have donned the flowing robes of spring.

From the gardener's eyes the same love flows
To all flowers It's only the florist
Who picks and chooses flowers.

We now have flowers made of paper.
They have become a rage ! And this new passion
Fills all the bulbuls with gratitude!

It's a tale of love, Mahjoor ! Make your language sweet
Appeals and laments can't vibrate with life
Without the leaven of love !