O withered rose! How can I still call you a rose?
How can I call you the longing of nightingale’s heart?
Once the zephyr’s movement was your rocking cradle
In the garden’s expanse joyous rose was your name
The morning breeze acknowledged your benevolence
The garden was like perfumer’s tray by your presence
My weeping eye sheds dew on you
My desolate heart is concealed in your sorrow
You are a tiny picture of my destruction
You are the interpretation of my life’s dream
Like a flute to my reed-brake I narrate my story
Listen O rose! I complain about separations!