Across the fields of saffron, My beloved has been gone, Looking at the withered fields, Early dawn a peacock cries.
Chinars have shed four times And eight times my faith The lantern is getting dim, I see the moon, he is late; Till date, seventeen sweaters I've weaved, looking at the gate, Sitting on the chair Mumbling the same hymn I look at the fields, Neither returns bloom nor him.