Az mehr ta-ba-zarra dil-o-dil hai aaina

From sun to atom, heart reflecting heart is a mirror; For the mimic soul, the world from every part is a mirror.

Awe is the fevered joy of writhing, restless and shrill; A quicksilver pillow for the heart’s own will is a mirror.

Heedlessness flutters on the blade’s fine, patterned steel; The killer’s playful glance, his hidden will, is a mirror.

A gaze is stunned by beauty's lightning, a playful thrill; Veiled in the air, a dying wing’s last thrill is a mirror.

Here, the sharp fingernails of planning have broken still; A magic knot that foils all human skill is a mirror.

A space for thought, a stage for the rose to bloom and spill; It frames both solitude and the crowd's great thrill, is a mirror.

The heart's a forge of thought; Asad, its cry of ill; Here, the stone step at the master Bedil’s sill is a mirror.