Flower, nor Wine, neither Cup;
There are no signs of the past in my hand.

The leisure of my hobby has chained me.
My caprice has no way left to fly now.

This bitter consciousness meets no remedy.
I am not intoxicated as much as I drink.

Hear it immersed in the depths of heart.
No song is indeed the song of glee.

Sorrow in every form unlocks the heart
But the gathering lacks the courage for the cries.

The breeze in the morn of pleasure says to me:
Flower is the Summer, not the Sign.

There are hues of my heart still tangled
That lie beyond the vicinity of voice.

Expanses of such deserts wait for me yet
Upon whom no camel-feet have left their mark.

These atmospheres of gloom wait to light up.
But your heart does not possess the igniting spark.

Nasir, your Heart is a mound of ash,
If it does not beat with the clang of an axe.