Aabroo kya khaak uss gul ki ke gulshan mein nahin

What grace has any rose if its garden is not within? A collar shames the shirt if its garment is not within.

From weakness, weeping, nothing in my body can I keep; the color’s fled, that blood which on my garment is not within.

The atoms of the sun’s own gaze have gathered to one place; no dust motes dance, for their bright warden is not within.

How can I speak of sorrow’s jail? The darkness is profound; its window-slit can’t bear the light’s faint burden is not within.

The splendor of our life is love that brings utter ruin; the feast is dark if lightning in the harvest is not within.

They mock me for the cure I seek, for having my wound sewn; the other thinks the needle’s sharpest burden is not within.

We are so struck by one proud Spring, its beauty our demise, that save for roses, common dust upon our garden is not within.

Each drop of blood becomes the seed for yet another sore; my blood itself from pain’s sweet pardon is not within.

The Saqi’s pride has cured my thirst that drank the oceans dry; the pulse of wine, the flask’s sweet burden, is not within.

How can my weakness even show, in this state of utter collapse? There is no room to bend—that simple burden is not within.

What fame had Ghalib in his home, to find respect elsewhere? I am the straw that for the fire’s harsh pardon is not within.