Ashadh is slipping away, yet no poem comes—I cannot bear this at all. All these silencing rains, clouds, rainbows I've witnessed, and still I can write nothing. Oh! What agony this is, I could never make anyone understand.
The kohl from my lover's eyes, mixed with her tears, has trickled down and merged with the rainwater, becoming one. I am a selfish artist-lover—I didn't go to wipe away my beloved's tears. I stood there, stood and savored that scene.
I couldn't bring myself to commit the injustice of wiping away those tears with a handkerchief, and because I couldn't, my lover has become someone else's lover. She has taken the hand of that other lover—one who offers his shoulder when she weeps, poor soul, who doesn't know how to stand quietly and watch the water-dance of tears and kohl. Alas... Only a fool like him deserves to be the lover of such a mindless beauty—I am not worthy of her.
A lover who waits for Ashadh through the other eleven months—does he ever fear losing his beloved?