Ghazal, In Lament For The Dead, Of Pir Muhammad

The season of parting has come up with the wind;
My girl has hollowed my heart with the hot iron of separation.
Keep away, doctor, your roots and your knives are useless.
None ever cured the ills of the ill of separation.
There is no one near me noble enough to be told;
I tear my collar in the "Alas! Alas!" of separation.
She was a branch of santal; she closed her eyes and left me.
Autumn has come and she has gone, broken to pieces in the wind of separation.
I am Pir Muhammad and I am stumbling away to die;
She stamped on my eyes with the foot of separation.
From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century).