When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.

I want to go to the place,

where dwell those,

Whose stories of passion,

are painted on the walls with their blood.

Where the wind carries the ashes,

of moths,

who lived and died in their own flames.

The place,

where the orchestra of wind chimes-

plays,

on the ashes of the eternal beings.

I want to go to the place,

where there are entwined paths,

of You and me,

leading to a destination that is none.

Lay chalo, lay chalo Mujhey wahan lay chalo

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