Say where shall I wait, in Shāngas or Naugām?
An ill name I got in Kutahār!
Azmē, love of thee, etc.
I sought thee in Achhaval, Brang, Kutahār—
Lakhs of hardships I suffered, my darling.
Pomegranate thy cheeks, or saza-posh—
How dark are thine eyes, my darling!
Shining thy brows as though with sweat—
How many a one thy nose has slain, my darling!
Sitting by the door, choosing saffron flowers,
I know not for whom, my darling!
What a famous spinning-wheel is there in Kolgām,
Matchless its handle, my darling!
Silver are the strings of thy spinning-wheel,
Those who see it fall ill with wonder, my darling!
Skilfully pounding the rice so fine,
The good shape of the cypress has Azmē, my darling!
Bright is her dress as a pearl,
Short are the plaits of Azmē, my darling!
Slowly combing her hair so fine—
I will count up thy plaits, my darling!