Laaghar itna hoon ke gar tu bazm mein jaa de mujhe

So wasted by my love, if you would grant me entry there, I swear that not a single guest could name me with a stare.

What wonder if the sight of me could finally make her care? Let someone, by some clever trick, just bring me to her there.

Then do not show your face, so be it—but with artful ire, Just part the veil and show me eyes that burn with angry fire.

She takes such pleasure in my capture, in this sweet despair, That if I were a lock of her own dark and flowing hair, She’d gladly tangle me within her comb, and hold me there.