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Allured by your elegant grace,
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T wandered over many a desolate place
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To understand the maddening mystery
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Of your superb craftsmanship.
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No poor man's cry for justice
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Is allowed to reach your ears.
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Shouldn't you, the flower, tune your ears
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To the cry of the bulbul's heart ?
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Have patience ! Flowers always bloom
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When the time is ripe;
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They don't wait for invitations
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And petitions from the filed.
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The song of the swallows woke me up
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Well before early dawn.
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I understood that winter's gone
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And effulgent spring has come.
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What to one are pleasure fields,
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When riven by grief and pain ?
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That's why the poppy doesn't choose
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To stay in flower bed.
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If they never have been able
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To put their own house in order,
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How can they ever claim to lend
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A helping hand to others ?
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Rise from your humble station,
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Choose your place on the heights,
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For the sun's lustre falls first
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On rocks on mountain tops.
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When the Son of Man bore the cross,
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With the Word of God on his lips,
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It was evident that in this world
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Cruelty respects no faith !
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Who knows whence came the morning breeze,
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And why so late at night,
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Moving with slow, deliberate steps,
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Sprinkling scent on the scarves of flowers !
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He chose to remain away from me -
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He, whom I had dearly bought
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For two of my costly jewels,
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And two cups of the wine of love !
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When the god of beauty came here
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To distribute his beauty,
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He gav diamonds to simple stones,
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And only thorns to the flowers.
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When Mahjoor is really free,
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And enters the flower fields,
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Flowers will blaze their torches,
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And poshinools tune up their lyres.