When that exquisite beauty strolls into the garden; every single flower bud recites this supplication:

‘O God! Out of all flowers he may he pick me! From flower-bud into full flower he may turn me.’

He may pluck you from the branch! How lucky you are; your rivals in the garden may flounce at you.

From pangs of separation to the union you reached; the essence of your life to perfection reached.

My lotus, which beauty’s worshipers adore, which the prime of my youth does ever adore.

This flower could never attain its objective; could never know some one’s colorful skirt.

Spring will never be able to make it bloom; waiting for the gardener ever keeps it sad.