Of my plight, I won't speak;
You have asked - so kind of you.
If it's not of pangs of love you are suffering,
why then you steal your glance
and bat your eyelids on meeting?
If you forget, it'll leave me heart-broken;
I'm but sure you'll fondly remember,
when I'm gone.
Earlier my eyes were tearful streams,
Mir, now these are just a desert!
How much low was my heart at night, Mir,
That all the words on my lips became a prayer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.