Manzoor thi yeh shakl tajalli ko noor ki

The Primal Radiance sought a form for its own grace, And found its destined advent in your form and face.

In one blood-spattered shroud, a million graces lie; On your slain lovers, Houris cast an envious eye.

O Preacher, you can't drink it, nor can you pour a taste; So what's the virtue of your heaven's wine, so chaste?

On Judgment Day, my killer quarrels, full of scorn: "Why did you rise? Did you not hear the final horn?"

The nightingale now sings, for spring is drawing near; A rumor on the wing is all the birds can hear.

Though absent now, they were from that same place expelled; A distant kinship to the Kaaba is still held.

Is it decreed one answer must be all men's share? Come, let us also stroll on Sinai's peak, and dare.

My verse has passion, true, but not to that extreme That all who hear it must protest my burning theme.

O Ghalib, if my lord would take me in his train, I'd gift the merit of a Hajj, such is my gain.