My love, do not ask from me the love we shared before.
Your countenance is assurance of perennial spring.
I always thought life would shine eternally in your presence.
We share our grief; why argue over the sorrows of existence?
For what is the worth of this world but the sight of your eyes?
Had I only found you, the fates would be enthralled.
This wasn’t how it should have been, except that I wanted it to be -
there are sorrows in this world, far beyond the anguish of love.
There is more to happiness than the relief of reunion.
Blighted in dark magic, of years beyond count,
young flesh, draped in silk, satin and brocade,
is up for sale in alleys and marketplaces. Bodies emergeÂ
from furnaces of pestilence, dragged in dirt, bathed in blood.
From leaking ulcers pus flows untapped,
my eyes cannot look away, what should I do?
Your beauty still allures, but what can I do?
There are sorrows in this world, far beyond the pleasures of love.
There is more to happiness than the relief of reunion;
so my love, do not ask from me
the love we shared before.
(This here is a translated version of an Urdu song of which I am sure you all would have surely come around. It's truly overness personified.)