Thy fonts quick silver bewails with grace.
The birds at dawn are restive in thy space.
O Valley of Lolab’s Grace
On harp thus depend the heart rending moons.
If the wries are loose, no quill makes the tones.
O Valley of Lolab’s Groans
The Muulah’s glance lacks the in sight’s sense,
The pure wine of sufi lacks booze and trance.
O Valley of Lolab Hence
Who wakes up the hearts from the morning
wails, To see such Dervesh for long my sense fails.
O Valley of Lolab Tales