Into the garden quietly came the dew
last night. It had sad news to tell.
Throughout the night it said
what every priest in mosque and temple says,
into the flower’s ear whispering as it wept:
“Mortal is the world,
evanescent its laughter and its joys.
With a cry we come, with a wail we go.”
The morning sun came up,
mind’s mistiness cleared and eyes did see around.
The dew—it shrank with fear,
the dark night’s messenger had fled.
The flowers laughed, the buds—
they clapped for joy and burst into bloom.
[Translated from the Kashmiri by J. L. Koul]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem