piya tora kaisa abhiman
piya tora kaisa abhiman
kisi mosam ka jhoka tha
jo is diwar par lataki huyi tasvir tirachhi kar gaya hai
gaye sawan me ye diware yu shili nahi thi
na jane is dafa kyu in me shilan aa gayi hai
darare pad gayi hai aur shilan is tarha bathi hai jaise
kushka rukhsaro pe gile aansu bahate hai
saghan sawan layi kadam bahar
mathura se doli laye charo kahar
nahi aaye, nahi aaye keshriya balma humar
angana bada sunsan

ye barish gungunati thi isi chhat ke mundero par
ye barish gungunati thi isi chhat ke mundero par
ye ghar ki khidkiyo ke kach par ungli se likh jati thi sandese
bilgti rahti hai baithi huyi ab band roshandano ke pichhe
apne nayan se nir bahaye, apni jamuna khud aap hi banave
apne nayan se nir bahaye, apni jamuna khud aap hi banave

duphare aisi lagti hai bina moharo ke khali khane rakhe hai
na koi khelane wala hai bazi, na koi chal chalta hai
lakh bar usme hi nahaye, pura na huyi asanan
phir pura na huyi asanan
sukhe kesh rukhe besh manva bejan

na din hota hai ab na rat hoti hai
sabhi kuch ruk gaya hai wo kya mosam ka jhoka tha
jo is diwar par lataki huyi tasvir tirachhi kar gaya hai
piya tora kaisa abhiman, tora
piya tora, tora, tora, tora
kaisa abhiman, piya tora

Beloved, what arrogance you bear,
Beloved, what arrogance you bear.
A gust of season's breath, a fleeting air,
That skewed the portrait on the wall, and there,
The walls weren’t damp in the passing rain,
Why dampness now, a weeping, silent pain?
Cracks have opened, and the wetness flows,
Like tears that fall on cheeks the dry wind knows.

The monsoon brought lush, verdant grace,
From Mathura, palanquins, at a measured pace.
He did not come, my saffron-clad lover, my embrace,
The courtyard vast, a desolate space.

This rain once hummed upon the parapets' height,
This rain once wrote on window panes, with light,
Messages with fingers, crystalline and bright,
Now withdraws, behind the closed windows, in the night,
Weeping from her own eyes, a river’s flow,
Creating her own Yamuna, a world of woe.
Weeping from her own eyes, a river’s flow,
Creating her own Yamuna, a world of woe.

Afternoons, like empty squares, devoid of play,
No one to game, no moves to sway.
Bathed a thousand times, and yet, the cleansing stayed,
The cleansing stayed,
Dry hair, a weary guise, a spirit frayed,
No day, no night, the clocks have ceased to tick,
Was it the fleeting wind that made the portrait stick,
Skewed upon the wall?
Beloved, what arrogance you bear,
Beloved, beloved, beloved, beloved,
What arrogance, Beloved, you declare.