گل پژمردہ

How shall I call you now a flower? Tell me, oh withered rose! How call you that beloved for whom the nightingale’s heart glows?

The winds’ soft ripples cradled you and rocked your bygone hours; And your name once was Laughing Rose in the country of flowers.

With the dawn breezes that received your favours you once played; like a perfumer’s vase your breath sweetened the garden glade.

These eyes are full, and drops like dew fall thick on you again; this desolate heart finds dimly its own image in your pain.

A record drawn in miniature of all its sorry gleaming; my life was all a life of dreams, and you – you are its meaning.

I tell my stories as the reed plucked from its native wild murmurs: Oh Rose, listen! I tell the grief of hearts exiled.

میں بانسری کی طرح اپنے نیستاں کی کہانی سناتا ہوں۔ اے پھول سن! 'میں بھی جدائی کا گلہ کرتا ہوں۔