The Withered Flower
O the
withered flower! I don’t find words to call thee a flower,
How can I
call thee an aspiration of nightingale’s heart ?
There was a time when waves of breeze
was thy rocking cradle,
In
courtyard of the garden thy name was the cheerful-flower,
The morning breeze admitted the obligation of
thee,
By dint of thy existence garden was the
casket of the perfumer,
My weeping eyes drop drops of dew of thee,
In thy
sadness is hidden grief of my deserted heart,
Thou art a small image of the ruined heart
of mine,
My life
was a dream whose interpretation art thou,
Like a flute I too narrate story of my own
lineage,
O
flower listen! I narrate grief of separation from my beloved.
( Suggestions invited for betterment )
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