Just like the wild lupines gleaming
In the middle of the dark woods,
Hunting your sheen face hither and yon
While the scent from your shredded Pheran,
Is as afresh as a newborn lying in his
I call you from the mountains
Of Zabarwan and take rest by
The becks of Aharbal
Still I am ignorant about
I eat from the stale and rotten
Fruits of the forest,
And ah! My worn-out soles
In the mid scorching Summer.
O my love,
I have come to make you mine
Or else, I’ll be buried here in this land.