mitti da bawa main bunauni aa
mitti da bawa main bunauni aa
ve choga paani aa ute deni aa khesi
na ro mitti de aa baweya tera pyo
padesi

mitti da bawa main bunauni aa
mitti da bawa nhi oo bolada
nhi oo bolada nhi oo dinda hugara
na ro mitti de aa baweya tera pyo
vchara

mitti da bawa nhi oo bolada
nhi oo bolada nhi oo bolada
nhi oo bolada bolada bolada
nhi oo bolada nhi oo bolada
mitti da bawa nhi oo bolada
nhi oo chalda nhi oo dinda hugara
na ro mitti de aa baweya tera pyo
vchara

sun sun kesari aa kesari aa balam
sawan aavan keh gaye kar gaye kal anek
ginta ginta ghis gayi mari gallian ki ret
kaga sab tan khayi aa chun chun khayi mas
kaga sab tan khayi aa chun chun khayi mas
hai doye naina mat chhuye oo piya milan ki aash

I fashion a form from clay, I do,
a form from clay I carefully mold.
The purest water I gently bestow,
a shroud of linen, a story untold.
Weep not, O clay-form, for your father,
a stranger, a soul set adrift on the road.

I fashion a form from clay, I do.
The clay-form speaks not, nor walks, nor sighs.
Weep not, O clay-form, for your father,
the unfortunate one beneath weeping skies.
The clay-form speaks not,
speaks not, speaks not.
He speaks not.
He speaks not. He speaks not.
The clay-form speaks not.
He walks not, nor sighs,
Weep not, O clay-form, for your father,
the unfortunate one, whose spirit now flies.

My saffron hair, my saffron love,
the monsoon’s promise, a multitude of lies.
Counting the days, my cheeks are worn,
like sand worn smooth beneath the skies.
The crow has feasted, devoured my flesh,
the crow has feasted, all flesh now dies.
But spare my eyes, do not touch them, crow,
for in them lingers the hope of my love,
the hope of my love, my lover’s rise.