Mumkin nahin ke bhool ke bhi aarmeeda hoon

I cannot know a moment's peace, all rest is slain; In sorrow's waste, a deer that knows the hunter's aim, I am.

By choice or force, my very being is but pain; A long-drawn cry, a tear that's tasted yet again, I am.

No beads for prayer, no cup of wine; my reach is vain; A severed hand, for either task unfit, in this chain, I am.

In no one's heart is there a space I might obtain; A perfect verse, but an unheard, unsung refrain, I am.

Though pious men may look on me with deep disdain; Among the sinners, chosen for a higher plane, I am.

My song is warmed by visions that my thoughts sustain; The nightingale of gardens that are yet to reign, I am.

My eyes are open to this world, a garden vain; But what's the use? A dewdrop seeing its own bane, I am.

Asad, just as a rabid dog fears water's plain, I fear the mirror, for by mankind I have been slain, I am.