The dying world at the corridor lies
The perfume of aroma spreads
The fluttering Burigangya wails
With a voice full of lamentations.
Will come the saint who yesterday sat
Folding knees before triangular thighs
He will come hiding gyp in pious saint
Or as a monk 'll spread peace-dreams
Then his peace crown be disguised.
The folk with welcoming tone leaves
The seat. 'Come, stay by the corpse, '
'Explain burial pain, all about divorce.
And hugging the cradle legs
Weep over the corpse.
lugging the Jubbah edges
Wipe tear, the snots.'
We always pray upwards and say
Amin! Amin! ! Amin! ! !