Khamoshiyon mein tamasha adaa nikalti hai

In quietude, a spectacle of grace emerges; From the heart's eye, like your dark kohl, it emerges.

From solitude's tight press, the dew finds its own space; The breeze, from the bud's closed curtain, emerges.

Don't ask the lover's heart about your sword-like gaze; From the wound-as-window, now the air emerges.

Like fragile glass, my heart's a lonely, empty place; At times a fairy to this lonely space emerges.

The curve of hair can teach the truest, straightest ways; As from a serpent's mouth, the morning breeze emerges.

Asad, at death, longed his devotion's plea to trace; And from him still, a word without a sound emerges.