You affable height in the beauty garden,
Is a sypress which cannot be found in Kashmar.
In my mirror the elixir of life,
Is not cleaner than sweetie.
The head which is not your polo ball,
I hit the mallet as it is not head.
If except you the seed of love grows,
I’ll uproot it as it's not fruitful.
Your love’s sapling within the Hindī’s heart,
Will grow nothing but sigh and regret.