It was a gust of wind

that twisted the painting on this wall askew

Last monsoon, the walls were not damp like this

Who knows why damp has seeped into them this time

and cracks have appeared in them

The droplets fall like wet tears flow down dry cheeks

Heavy clouds give way to Monsoon, 

making flowers bloom,

But you did not come, my dark handsome lover

Leaving my courtyard deserted

The rain whispers on the edge of the roof

she used to write messages with her finger on the glass windows of my home

But now she lives in isolation, sitting behind closed blinds 

The afternoons appear to me like empty chessboards without pawns...

there is no one to play the game, and there is no one to make a move 

Your own heart sheds tears of separation,

creating your own river which you bathe in a hundred times

And it seems like your bath is never ending

White I wait, my hair remains brittle; my appearance unkempt

and my heart lifeless....

Now neither day nor night arrives, everything is on a standstill

Was it a gust of wind that twisted the painting on the wall askew?

My beloved, what is this pride of yours?