वळवाच्या सरीन्नी,

म्रुद्गन्ध जो दिजला,

वर्षाच्या सरीन्च्या,

धारात मिटुन गेला.

आसमन्ती इन्द्राधनुने,
जे सप्तरन्ग भरले,
पसरता नभी प्रकाशी,
क्षणात सरुन गेले.

मायेच्या सावल्याही,

काळानुरुप सरल्या,

निस्प्रुह प्रीतीच्या ही,

खूणाच फक्त उरल्या.

मज स्वप्नस्रुष्टी चे हे,

महाल सर्व झडले,

दु:खासहीत काही,
मनात प्रश्न उरले.

मज जीवन दीनाच्या,

मध्यान्ही असा हा,

मज स्वप्न जीवनाचा,

सुर्यास्त का दिसावा?

मज साद घालणारया,

सुह्रुदान्चे हे तराणे,

होते खरेच का ते,
सारेच हे बहाणे?

हळव्या मनान्च्या या,

अव्यक्त बन्धनान्च्या,
निशब्द भावनाना,

तो अर्थ काय होता?

नात्यान्चे अन मनान्चे,

हे सप्तसुर जुळले,

मग रन्ग मैफीलीचे,

बेसुर का निघाले?

मिटातील रन्ग सारे,

सुटतील सन्ग सारे,

वनवास का मनाचा,

प्रवाह हाच आहे?

On a deserted branch, far from the shelters of leaves and the friendship of blossom grew a tender pale flower.
The tender pale flower welcomed every coming day with a smile.

The unsheltered branch promised scorching heat of the long hot days.
The unsheltered branch promised the freezing dark nights.
The tender pale flower welcomed every coming day with a smile.

The deserted branch promised the stormy winds.
The deserted branch promised the long pouring rains.
The tender pale flower welcomed every coming day with a smile.

The day was dark, sullen and filled with clouds. With no ray of light, it was about to pour and came a little birdy.

The birdy had the golden wings and the melodious tone. Broken by the ruthless world, the birdy sang his heart alone, venting scars of the treacherous world.

The songs dried as the wounds were healed. The birdy saw the tender pale flower.
“Oh, my apologies good flower, I did not notice you”, said the birdy.
“Its fine golden angel, no one notices me” said the flower.
“Did my cries bother you?” asked the birdy.
“Oh no, you have a gift of voice! for the first time ever you showed me the world melodies!”, exclaimed the pale flower.
“Songs are not the jewels of voice, songs are the wounds of heart”, cried little birdy.

The tender pale flower smiled.

“I liked talking to you good flower. With my heart purged, I now see world of the sunny mornings after the rainy dark nights. I like your place, deserted though, away from the treacherous world. Hope to see you soon my friend”, said the little birdy while leaping into the clear bright sky, keeping alive the torturous hope of the melodies.

With petals promising no songs, with pale colour promising no shines, with mild fragrance promising no bees, wounds of the tender pale flower went ever unsaid and ever unheard.

The tender pale flower still welcomes every coming day with a smile, sitting alone on the deserted branch.