In the Shalamar Garden a yellowed leaf was saying, ‘Gone is that spring of which the confidante I am.

The garden’s visitors should not trample me down; the memory of the branch of their own nest I am.’

This tiny little leaf made the heart restless; on coming into the garden complete mourner of spring I am.

In the autumn I am crying in remembrance of the spring. How can I get the happiness of Eid as grief-stricken I am!

Devastated have become the olden days’ taverns; a memorial of the olden days’ wine drinkers I am.

It gives the message of pleasure and happiness to us! The crescent of Eid is making fun of us!