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
In the garden's expanse joyous rose was your
The morning breeze acknowledged your
The garden was like perfumer's tray by your
My weeping eye sheds dew on
My desolate heart is concealed in your
You are a tiny picture of my
You are the interpretation of my life's
Like a flute to my reed-brake I narrate my
Listen O rose!
I complain about separations!
Explanatory Note1.
The melodious tune of the flute, which is made of reed, is full of feelings, representing the flute's pathos on its separation from the reed-brake, where its origin and homeland is.
This verse is a slightly modified version of the opening verse of \
