Yearning for union fills my soul,
Patience and peace have no control;
O wanton one! my longing’s goal!
On earth the glass of mirth and glee
To me’s forbid, apart from thee.
Seek, Wāsif, her who hearts doth snare
Yon maid with bosom silver-fair;
Until thou thither dost repair,
On earth the glass of mirth and glee
To me’s forbid, apart from thee.
Wāsif.
SHARQĪ
To whom that wine-red ruby’s shown
Is captive by those locks o’erthrown;
’Tis meet like nightingale I moan:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.
Unmatched yon maid with waist so spare,
Unrivalled too her wanton air;
Her ways than e’en herself more fair:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.
The roses like her cheeks are few;
That rose—blush-pink its darling hue;
This summer ere the roses blew,
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.
The rose—the nightingale’s amaze;
The rose the nightingale dismays;
A smile of hers the world outweighs:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.
O Wāsif, on the rosy lea,
The nightingale thus spake to me:
“Be joyful tidings now to thee—
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.”
Wāsif.