Midnight, a donsy of gnomes
Appears in my garden,
Robed in bright red-brown tints
Wandering around like a warden,
Phrygian caps on their head,
Boots of birch bark that grows on a hill,
And a wide leather belt on the waist
Holding a knife, hammer, and drill—
The little dwarfs with
Wrinkled faces not because of age,
But for the grin and laugh
That they hold in their gaze,
Though no treasure I have,
Neither do I have an outstanding fate
Nor a glossy golden gate,
Still, they come and roam
Without any greed— without any hate.

No matter if it is wither or bloom
Love or hate — droughts or rain,
Spiders dwell in the sunflowers
And do not leave home
If there's a hurricane;
Birds in their wooden nests
And bees in their honeycomb,
Into the overgrown gardens,
The dragonflies roam,
None flees, everyone is home;
Listen to the waters—
Silver in the oysters
And the lakes holding foam,
Be like this little green spider
And desert not this lovely home.

Shall ever bloom this sleepy face?
Many a moon passed by
And passed many a sun,
But never returned her grace;
Although the winds are sweet
Upon a hill where the horses run,
And she eats dried roses
In the memories of someone;
I speak the word of the truth
Which is denied by everyone,
Barely anyone will take care of her
When my day is done;
Horses shall halt—
And shall halt the breathing winds
Even if I head to a heavenly place
Shall never bloom this sleepy face.

A couple of centaurs clopping
Over the grass,
Shakes my world like an earthquake
When I behold her, the Indian lass;
She is working in the fields
Under the ardent sun,
Her face is in a veil
And nigh her feet rabbits run;
For a bud that wants to be a flower
In sweat, her beauty is steeped,
Like wheat, she is gold-tanned
Ready to get reaped;
Beauty isn't slave to the riches
Is now peacefully proved,
When her lips, O' the sweet lips,
Murmured an ode to her beloved.

Where ever my gaze run sees death,
Butterflies mourning over a meadow
And many a tulip at their last breath,
The scent of saffron from the fields
Come and die at my wandering feet,
O' the most beautiful valley Kashmir
Where there the chinar trees greet,
What has happened to your soul?
Show me your true form—
And bless me whole.

The winds are going back to the sea
Whistling through the Himalayas,
And the lovely fall is no more lovely,
The lakes robed in brown leaves
And the brown boats still for long,
Makes me more dumb and dead
To the skylark's delicious song;
This heart weeps for everything
Every petal of this valley
And the flower that wants to sing.

In the moonlit sky of Gulmarg nights,
A child by the street is happy,
To his eyes are the blissful sights;
The scent of fresh Wazwan blooms,
At his little feet, cold and dry,
The stars are playful marbles to him
And a coin glimmering in the sky;
I can see him roaming the green lea
O' the land of seven apples,
If I see, the world of joy is in me

A gust from the sea shook the tree
And the leaves fell one by one,
The wet roads greeted them well
And the end of my story has begun
As I ambled on them like farewell;
None will remember— me and you,
Someday we too will be gone
Like these mulberry leaves,
And then fresh leaves at dawn
Shall rise a bit above the grieves;
The rain has its petrichor at most
And my childhood flashes back,
The time will hit this mulberry tree
Closing my story in mid-track,
With another gust from the sea.

Though the journey was of few feet,
It took my entire life to reach there.

If you bury me, bury me
On the outskirts of my village,
A tree I shall become,
Berries shall grow upon me
Beckoning the blossom to come,
Of my funeral:
The cortège will not be a lot,
The path is a few feet,
Tirelessly you will all reach;
And there on the outskirts,
Better you cremate me,
Let my smoke fly in the air
I don't want the earth to carry
The burden of my useless corpse.