Phool ka tohfa ata hone par

She— That queen of graceful airs, who in the garden appears, Each bud— From every budding tongue, a hopeful prayer one hears: "O Lord! From all the flowers, let her choose but me, From bud to a bloom that shames the sun, let me be." To be the one she plucks! How blessed a fate for you! Your rivals in the garden writhe, their longing ever new. By bearing the sharp pain of severance, you reached communion’s height, The essence of your life attained perfection’s purest light. But my own lotus, which the wise with deep adoration see, The single pride of the garden of my youth, for me, This flower has never met its purpose, never been embraced, By any lover’s vibrant hem has never once been graced. No coming spring will ever coax its petals to unfold, The wait for the gatherer’s hand just keeps it sad and cold.