LXXXVI: O rose! who art the true cause of…

O rose! who art the true cause of the garden's loveliness,
Why condescendest thou to join, in laughter, with thorns and weeds?

How cometh it, that thou art not conscious of thine own dignity?
For thou art the one and only beauteous object in this parterre.

The songs of the nightingales will not always be made for thee;
For thou, O lovely rose! art notorious for thy lack of constancy.

Delight, then, the senses of the nightingale with thine own fragrance,
For the few, short days, that thou freshly bloomest, the garden within.

Should I desire to mention, unto any one, thy injustice, 'tis unspeakable;
Yet with all this heavy amount of wrongs, thou art my life still.

But shouldst thou complain, unto any one, of the injustice of thy beloved,
May all love's calamities befall thee; for thou sayest what is false.

O Khushhal! thou that ascendest unto love and passion's giddy height
Consider well, in thy heart, upon whom thou hast thine affections placed.