Kyun jal gaya na taab-e-rukh-e-yaar dekh kar

Why did I not turn ash, her brilliant face to see? I burn to see the strength of gaze inside of me.

The world now calls me worshipper of sacred fire, to see the constant, sparking sorrows I respire.

What honor can Love claim, where cruelty is art? I hold my tongue, to see you break my heart for sport.

She comes to kill me, filled with jealous, wild despair; I die just from the sight of steel within her care.

The flask’s slim neck is blamed for all of mankind’s fall, yet wine itself will tremble, seeing how you walk.

What tragedy! My love withdraws her cruel caress, to see me crave the very pain of my distress.

My verse and I are sold as one, a single trade, but only when I see the buyer’s worth displayed.

Now bind the sacred thread, and break the prayer-beads’ chain; the pilgrim walks the road, when he can see it’s plain.

I was dismayed by all the blisters on my feet, my heart revived, to see a path of thorns to meet.

How she mistrusts me! In my heart, a mirror-bright, she sees a flaw, and thinks it some new love’s reflected light.

That bolt of light should not have struck the sacred height; they pour the wine when they can see the drinker’s might.

That frenzied Ghalib, head against the stone, in pain— I see your wall, and all that madness comes again.