The morning today is different,
And the air is intoxicating,
Someone is whispering amidst the deodar
That spring is near.
The dried leaves are swept by the wind,
The old trunk is blessed with small green leaves,
Sudden cry of cuckoo brings to mind
That spring has come at last.
Love is in the air,
But the smell is lost with you.
Buried under piles of papers,
I am writing the song of spring.
Don't look for spelling nor for meaning,
But look for the face of an inexpensive man,
Who once dared to show his love ,
In one evening of spring.
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