Baagh pa kar khafqani yeh darata hai mujhe

This garden, found in madness, now terrifies me; The shadow of a rose branch as a viper appears to me.

The sword's bright pattern seems another fountainhead's design; I am the green that poisoned water now cultivates for me.

The goal is lost in watching my own heart break and fall; Into a hall of mirrors, someone now is leading me.

My cry, the wealth of worlds, yet the world's a handful of dust; The sky, a fragile dove's egg, now appears to me.

In life, they always cast me out from every gathering; Now I am dead, let's see who comes and carries me.

Without you, love, the garden's narcissus-glare alarms me; Should I desire a walk, it shows its angry eye to me.

What garden's envy makes this storm of images, O Lord? The mirror, like a nightingale's small egg, appears to me.

I am the mirror's shock, madness's end, just like a flame; From my heart's deepest scar, a fire now raises me.

I am here, with endless wonder, yet the pleasure of this pain— The magic of a coy glance comes again and tortures me.

The wonder of poetic thought remains unharmed, Asad; My own heart, past the mirror's knee, now comes and places me.