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The Withered Rose (Allama Iqbal)

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O withered rose! How can I still call you a rose? How can I call you the longing of nightingale's heart? Once the zephyr's movement was your rocking cradle In the garden's expanse joyous rose was your name The morning breeze acknowledged your benevolence The garden was like perfumer's tray by your presence My weeping eye sheds dew on you My desolate heart is concealed in your sorrow You are a tiny picture of my destruction You are the interpretation of my life's dream Like a flute to my reed-brake I narrate my story Listen O rose! I complain about separations

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