ID: 54489 | Date: 2018/06/05

My vow with the old wine-seller,
Last year, I renewed the year former night.
I deplore that in this spring season,
The friends are, all in garden but I am silent.
I too, with two flower-figured silver-like,

It is a pity that this pleasantry God-given life,
Upon wearing the hyporacy patched garment and the offering food I squander.
I appeal to a moon-like idol,
As I was not able to gain anything from the Sheikh in, the patched garment wearer.
I gained nothing from the school's cacophony,
Except the tragic words after so much clamour.
Now sitting in the corner of the tavern with a delicate beloved,
I'm sitting and closing my eyes and my ears to these people.
You won't hear any more tales from Hindī,
Except the words about the purity of wine and those of the wine-seller.