When the wind blows a little quicker,

The voice of the dry leaves comes forth:

Dry leaves, the companions of my years;

Dry leaves, the flowers of my loneliness;

Dry leaves, the principles of my honor.

The silence of the desolated garden

Is as frightening as a corpse

Which hangs in the arms of the night

As if moonlight is its shroud;

Death bubbling from every side,

Death, walking, silently holding its breath

Suddenly knocking at my mind.

The dry leaves called me.

Whether the garden remains desolate or flourishes,

The mind should be free of the anxiety;

That new gusts of wind will no more blow here

And the things, wherever they are placed—

You will see them there even on Doomsday.

Whether it is the flower-season or the time of autumn

When the wind blows more quickly,

The footsteps of Time echo

And the voices of the dry leaves come forth:

We are near you, we are with you.

We are the same—the companions of your years;

We are the same—the flowers of your loneliness;

We are the same—the principles of your honour.

.

October 1959

From: Dasht-i vafā (Desert of Fidelity), 1964. pp 191-92

With Munibur Rahman