gulashan ki faqat phulo se nahi
kaato se bhi zinat hoti hai
gulashan ki faqat phulo se nahi
kaato se bhi zinat hoti hai
jine ke liye is duniya me
gam ki bhi zarurat hoti hai

e waaiz e nadaan karta hai
tu ek qayaamat ka charcha
e waaiz e nadaan karta hai
tu ek qayaamat ka charcha
yaha roz nigaahe milti hain
yaha roz qayamat hoti hai
yaha roz nigaahe milti hain
yaha roz qayamat hoti hai

wo pursish e gam ko aaye hain
kuch kah na saku chup rah na saku
wo pursish e gam ko aaye hain
kuch kah na saku chup rah na saku
khamosh rahu to mushkil hai
kah dun to shikayat hoti hai
khamosh rahu to mushkil hai
kah dun to shikayat hoti hai

karna hi padega zaqat e alam
pine hi padenge ye aansu
karna hi padega zaqat e alam
pine hi padenge ye aansu
fariyaad o fugaa se e nadaan
tauhin e mohabbat hoti hai
fariyaad o fugaa se e nadaan
tauhin e mohabbat hoti hai

jo aake ruke daaman pe saba
wo ashq nahi hai paani hai
jo aake ruke daaman pe saba
wo ashq nahi hai paani hai
jo aansu na chhalke aankho se
us ashq ki qimat hoti hai
gulashan ki faqat phulo se nahi
kaato se bhi zinat hoti hai
jine ke liye is duniya me
gam ki bhi zarurat hoti hai

The garden blooms not just with petals bright,
But thorns, they too possess a grace untold.
The garden blooms not just with petals light,
But thorns, their presence bravely, we behold.
To live, to breathe within this mortal sphere,
A need for sorrow, darkly, we embrace.

O, ignorant preacher, you speak of the end,
A judgment day, a fiery, final plea.
O, ignorant preacher, your warnings extend,
A cataclysm, for all the world to see.
Here, every day, new glances interlace,
Here, every day, a small apocalypse.
Here, every day, a small apocalypse.

They come to ask of woes I now conceal,
I cannot speak, nor can I silent stay.
They come to ask of wounds I now reveal,
Unable to speak, or to turn away.
If silence falls, a burden I must bear,
If words are spoken, then complaint prevails.

The wounds of sorrow, we must surely know,
These bitter tears, we must, perforce, consume.
The wounds of sorrow, we must undergo,
These bitter tears, within us must entomb.
With pleas and wails, O, ignorant of heart,
The very essence of love is defiled.

The tears that linger on the morning breeze,
Are not true tears, they're merely drops of rain.
The tears that linger on the gentle trees,
Are not true tears, they're merely drops again.
That tear that fails to spill from tearful eyes,
That tear, its value, lies in depths within.
The garden blooms not just with petals bright,
But thorns, they too possess a grace untold.
To live, to breathe within this mortal light,
A need for sorrow, darkly, we behold.