dhi ni ta re re
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re
chali kose kose main akeli
mose bujhi jaaye na paheli
biraah bani mori saheli
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re

main jaagu sote sote jaise mohe
laage badan mora tune hi ho chhuaa
main jo hun tori baat baat jale
saath saath gehri ka diya
tu jo ghar aaye taras dikhaaye
tu jo ghar aaye taras dikhaaye
gharba main tose lag jaaun
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re

din bite mere fariyaad mein
kaatun raina bhi tori yaad mein
din bite mere fariyaad mein
kaatun raina bhi tori yaad mein
jude aise taar karke singaar
gayi khud ko haar
chubhan sine mein agan jine mein
tadap ka se kahun na mira na hun radha
kaanha tu bhula vaada jiyun to kaise jiyun
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re

chali kose kose main akeli
mose bujhi jaaye na paheli biraah bani mori saheli
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re
piya tu kaahe rutha re nigoda jag jhuta re

O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.
O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.

I wander, leagues of lonely dust,
A riddle whispered, I cannot trust.
Grief, my confidante, in whom to rest.
O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.

I wake within a slumber's guise,
As though your touch, my flesh did prize.
Each word I speak, ignites a fire,
The deep, the shared desire.
If you return, your grace to lend,
Into your arms, my soul will bend.
O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.

My days dissolve in pleas,
My nights in memory's disease.
Bound by threads, an adornment made,
My very self, forever swayed.
A sting within, life's burning pyre,
How to speak, though not a Radha, nor a Mira?
Krishna, you've forsaken promise made,
How can I live, without your aid?
O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.

I wander, leagues of lonely dust,
A riddle whispered, I cannot trust.
Grief, my confidante, in whom to rest.
O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.
O, wherefore art thou gone?
This world, a fickle, hollow drone.