पंजाब दी सी ,पंजाब जयी सी,
ओह, इक्को ही सही ,
जेदा ना अमृता सी।
पता नहीं , किधरो सोच दे मुंढेर ते बै क़े,
सफया दे नायाब , तयहवा विच बंद हरफा नू,
खोल के , कविता विच काढ छोड़दी सी।
जेहा सोचदी सी, ओहो केहन्दी सी,
अमृता न जयी कोई , अहो इक्को ही सी।
She belonged to Panjab, She was just perfectly Panjab,
She was unique, She was the Only one,
Whose name was Amrita.
No clue,where perching on the thought periphery,
from the novel pages, stringed words she used to,
untangle,and embroider in the vivacity of poetry.
What she used to think,she used to say,
There would never be her equivalent,She was unique,She was the Only one.
Many a times words fail when they are required the most to express, and at that moment expression takes over, what is felt takes its time .Time takes over, work disappears in background & reappears with time on the foregrounds, those words become freshness of fragrance of flowers-eternally.
And that is always called by name, ‘Amrita Pritam’.