|Today again from the east that thick black nimbus fares|
And Surban’s mountain-crest a dark-hued covering ears.
|When the face of the sun was hid in the skirt of its misty course,|
A chill wind raced on the cloud as a horseman speeds his horse.
|There is no rumble of thunder: the silence is thick as a pall:|
In the strange wine-shop of the heavens a quiet lies over all.
|It has ordered a scheme for the garden of joy that will always bless|
And has come to fasten a gem on the hem of the flower’s long dress.
|The bloom that once had nodded in the heat of the sun’s fierce ray|
To fall in earth’s lap, it rouses from sleep to a lifting day.
|With the wind’s wild blast the nimbus grew to mounting and soaring mass,|
And towering still higher it showered the rain out over the grass.
|It has made for the mountain saplings their own miraculous tent.|
Here let them rest, the wanderers, who from journey in vale are spent.
Translated by: H.T. Sorley