My heart does not feel at home in this desolate land
Whose creation is this world of the rootless
Tell these desires to settle somewhere else
Where is so much space in this tainted heart
Do not remove the thorns from the garden, O gardener
These too have grown up with the flowers in the spring
The nightingale has no complaint with the gardener or the hunter
It was written in his fate that he would be imprisoned in the season of spring
How unlucky is Zafar for burial
He could not even get two yards of land in the well of his beloved
Bahadur Shah Zafar
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