One night stars started saying this to the dew; ‘Every morning new sights are available to you.

Who knows how many worlds you have seen! Relics of those who rose and fell you have seen.

Venus has heard this news from an angel that human habitation is very far from the sky.

Tell us the tale of this beautiful realm; the ode of whose love the moon sings.’

‘O stars! Do not ask me about the earth’s garden; a place of sighs and wailing it is, not a garden.

The zephyr comes from there only to return; the poor flower-bud opens only to wither.

What can I tell you how garden-brightening the flower-bud is; some little flame without warmth the flower-bud is.

The rose cannot hear the nightingale’s call; it cannot pick up the pearls from my skirt.

The melodious birds are imprisoned, it is outrageous; the thorns grow just under the rose, it is outrageous.

The eye of the sick narcissus always remains wet; the heart longs for sight, but the eye is sightless.

The elm tree is tormented with the heat of complaint; the elm tree is nominally free but is really a prisoner.

The stars are the sparks of sighs to the human eye; in the rose garden’s language I am only lament’s cry.

Circumambulation of moon round the earth ignorance is; it thinks there the cure for its scar of Love is.

The foundation of the world’s abode is in the air; it is the picture of lament on the sheet of space!’