Masti ba-zauq-e-ghaflat-e-saaqi halaak hai

My bliss, from joy in the Sāqī's neglect, lies buried deep. The wave of wine is but a drowsy eyelash, dark and deep.

My heart desires no prize but wounds your graceful scorn cuts deep. The pocket of my mind is torn by you; its thoughts no longer keep.

From passion's fever, Asad, nothing can my clouded vision keep. The endless desert, in my eye, is just a dusty, worthless heap.