Kahoon kya aarzoo-e be-dili mujh ko kahan tak hai

How can I say how far this heart's desire is all in vain? My market's only splendor is the trade of loss and pain.

I am that votary of wine who blooms, a garden bright; The rose-scent lasts but till the cruel Saki's cold disdain.

My sweet song is the fowler's prize, the garden's only light; And restless lightning's fury is my fragile nest's own chain.

A handful of dust, I am a desert, scattered by grace; Ask not my scope, for my domain is earth and sky's whole plain.

I am a bell, a sleeping cry in every fiber lies; My silence lasts but till the caravan departs again.

From a calm heart, find means to make your tangled purpose clear; The whirlpool's knotted heart is solved by flowing water's reign.

In love's own garden, nightingale, to be silent is to die; For life itself is bound by the ritual of pain.

While youth remains, there's joy in sight and pleasure in desire; Our home's brief joy is but a guest's short stay, and all in vain.

The world decries my name, but oh, this foolish, fond refrain: I think my love's a secret that my confidants contain.