Loon waam bakht-e-khufta se yak-khwaab-e-khush walay

From sleeping fortune, one sweet dream I'd take on loan, But Ghalib fears, how can I ever pay what's owed?

What sweet despair, to court annihilation's art, And wear this life like dust, a robe to fall apart.

O Spring of Pride, come walk with graceful sway, And from the dust your flowered footprint lays, Let me now weave the turban I display.

What sweet abasement, in this desert of delay, To lie down like a path, and on my eyes to lay The dust of roads, and watch the world that way.

My patience has a style that tears my heart apart; My pain lies waiting, so my wailing cry can start.

I have no patience for good fortune's offered grace; I'd find a scar left by the Huma's shadow-trace.

I am the plea that begs for tyranny's sweet blow; I make my bent back the entreaty that will show The tyrant's blade the perfect place to go.

I am the secret of a wail, and through the plea Within my helpless gaze for all to see, From scattered kohl-dust, I'll write sound's decree.