Yesterday was autumn,
Today is spring—
Fields of saffron and walnuts,
Running wells and rivers sing,
Sings the glory of spring.
An adieu to the autumn lights,
And greetings to the summer,
From the Himalayas,
When the fireflies come here
I hope tomorrow will be summer

Wondrous of seven worlds,
Where there the waters can fly
And the airs can float,
Worlds must-see before you die,
As far as the eye can see, I see:
The mightiest of seven seas,
The grandest of seven skies,
The most verdant of the leas,
Everything's seen to these eyes,
A very last plea to my sweet:
Make me forget all this
And make me rest on thy feet.

A month in three sixty-five days
When love flies like a butterfly
And everything resurrects
Everything that was about to die,
Roses, gardens, and mangoes
Blush and bloom like a new bride
At the late end of February,
Skies flood all with a floral tide;
Warriors send their messages
To the departed souls
And beckon them back
Unrolling their unwritten scrolls.

O' mother, "Shall it ever end, this war?"
I am forgetting: my friends,
Family, faces, names, promises
Those night-outs and weekends;
And the breakfast I used to have,
The morning chants of lord Vishnu,
The burning incense of lemongrass
The birds pecking the window glass–
When shall those days return
And when will these days pass?
I can bear this grief and cage,
What about her,? mother;
If the time has come, Let me kiss:
Kiss the childhood, kiss you and her
Ere' it will end me and my sister.

A girl from south India
Unrolled her grief to me:
Being black is like a curse
No one approaches me
To me, every day is a tempest
The ocean seems black,
And so the sky;
No one seems to be smiling back.

O' dear, Believe in yourself;
I have heard of a boy:
The most beautiful of all
He's black, his name is Krishna;
Color is in the eyes and if it hurts
You haven't found the right eyes
Of the burden on your head
I shall make it lighter
I shall steal light from the stars
To make you a bit brighter,
And of your scars
I shall plea to Krishna that
You'll shine among the stars.

O' my beloved, Visit me here
Amid the romantic breezes,
There's a plea in my eyes
Don't you see it?
This poor man pleases,
Shikaras lit with golden lights
Float like fireflies,
Hands in hand in the moonlight,
The finest love we will make
Euphoria will be in the skies
And we will sail on Dal lake.

At the mountainside, he's buried
He who was beheaded of perfidy
Died in sumor blessed with snow,
At night upon his hidden grave
Moss and wilderness grow;
Whoever passes by that mountain
Leaves nothing to his grave
But the filthy footprints on him,
He's lived a life without remorse,
I hope he who they are looking for
Shall have returned to his source.