The Withered Rose

O withered rose! How can I still call you a rose?

How can I call you the longing of nightingale's heart?

Once the zephyr's movement was your rocking cradle

In the garden's expanse joyous rose was your name

The morning breeze acknowledged your benevolence

The garden was like perfumer's tray by your presence

My weeping eye sheds dew on you

My desolate heart is concealed in your sorrow

You are a tiny picture of my destruction

You are the interpretation of my life's dream

Like a flute to my reed-brake I narrate my story

Listen O rose! I complain about separations!

Explanatory Note1. The melodious tune of the flute, which is made of reed, is full of feelings, representing the flute's pathos on its separation from the reed-brake, where its origin and homeland is. This verse is a slightly modified version of the opening verse of \