When next the rain strikes Sindh, And that longed for fragrance rises, With Sindhu dust and Sindhu water, Mingled in love; We will know for certain, Sobho is gone. For the fragrance will be diminished, However slightly, And we will know then, The angle of the rain drops. Striking Sindhu, Altered in their descent, By nano degrees, Because Sobho is gone. And All Sindhis know, That he held for them, That un-gilded glue. That Mother Lode of Sindh, Kneaded into his voice, Making each son, Each daughter, Of shining Sindh, Also Sobho’s child.