Where's the cure to one's heartaches, for one battered by sorrows?
Who's there to comfort him and to shower love on him?
Arise, O Self, go and sit under that singed chinar.
You have no mother around under whose garment hem you would nestle.
On fire are our woods green
Where to go leaving this desolation behind?
The shade being dead, where is the cool?
Peace, serenity, love, affection - all things of the past.
Our city is hit by a gale
When will we receive the showers of Grace?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem