No more shall I set foot in these high buildings:

This I had once before sworn to myself.

Because of the defeats of my unsuccessful love,

Life had been ashamed and irritated, even before.

And I resolved that, in spite of this ruin,

I will no longer sing songs of love.

If a veil signals me, I will move on

And even if a door opens, I will turn away.

Then the magical smile of your trembling lips 

Began to weave a net, and kept on weaving; 

I pulled myself away but you 

Kept picking flowers to throw upon my path.

My mind and imagination rained snow, but 

An unknown flame waved in my heart; 

Finding your silent eyes burning, 

Even my disgusted nature started loving.

Don’t conceal the demands of your changed glances; 

I can understand the meaning of this gesture; 

I swear by the height of your gold-embroidered windows 

That I realize the fate of my endeavor.

No more shall I set foot in these high buildings;

This I had once before sworn to myself.

Because of the defeats of my unsuccessful love,

Life had been made ashamed and irritated, even before.

.
.

.
.

I know the end of this tale of love,

But let me, if only for a little while longer, make a futile try.

.

From: Talk̲h̲iyān̲ (Bitternesses). Dihlī: Panjābī Pustak Bhanḍār, 1963. pp. 117 – 19