Laaon woh tinke kahin se aashiyane ke liye

Should I go gather straws to build my nesting-place, When restless bolts of lightning yearn for its erase?

Alas, what failure! Heaven marked that bough for its disgrace, The very one I marked to be my fragile nesting-place.

Your vision can unite the seventy-two faiths, Your single cup can serve all time and every space.

Let me create a wish so strong within my heart, That Heaven would retreat and from my ruin race.

Go, gather up your harvest, picking grain by grain, A bolt of fire will surely come to leave no trace.

O comrade bird, I honored the hunter's coming loss, Or else would I have flown to such a lowly place?

The soul-bird must not sing its anthem of the free; Ah, this garden is no stage for songs of such a grace.