Shama aur Shair

Last night, I said to the candle of my desolate dwelling: "Your tresses are combed by the wing of a moth.

In this world, I am like the lamp of a desert tulip, Destined for no gathering, fated for no private chamber.

For ages, like you, I too have burned with every breath, Yet around my flame, no moth has ever stirred its wings.

A hundred splendors throb within my weary soul, But from this gathering, no impassioned soul takes flight.

From where did you gather this world-illuminating fire, To teach a humble worm the fire that Moses knew?"