My heart is not happy in this despoiled land Who has ever felt fulfilled in this transient world The nightingale laments neither to the gardener nor to the hunter Imprisonment was written in fate in the season of spring Tell these emotions to go dwell elsewhere Where is there space for them in this besmirched (bloodied) heart? I had requested for a long life a life of four days Two passed by in pining, and two in waiting. How unlucky is Zafar! For burial Even two yards of land were not to be had, in the land (of the) beloved.[5]