"My heart has no repose in this despoiled land Who has ever felt fulfilled in this futile world? The nightingale complains about neither the sentinel nor the hunter Fate had decreed imprisonment during the harvest of spring Tell these longings to go dwell elsewhere What space is there for them in this besmirched heart? Sitting on a branch of flowers, the nightingale rejoices It has strewn thorns in the garden of my heart I asked for a long life, I received four days Two passed in desire, two in waiting. The days of life are over, evening has fallen I shall sleep, legs outstretched, in my tomb How unfortunate is Zafar! For his burial Not even two yards of land were to be had, in the land of his beloved."