Na gul-naghma hoon na parda-e-saaz

I am no blossomed song, no melody from the lyre's deep case; I am the sound of my own breaking, my own desolate space.

You, with your world of coiled and scented braids; And I, with my world of far-reaching dreads.

The boast of composure, a simpleton's disguise; While I am left with secrets that melt the heart with sighs.

I am a captive to the fowler's loving snare; Though I still have the strength for flight, to soar upon the air.

May that day come when from that tyrant I might claim Her playful airs, instead of this longing's painful flame.

No drop of blood remains within this heart's deep maze From which my lashes have not scattered roses in a crimson haze.

Oh, your glance, a single stroke that stirs the soul from sleep; Oh, your tyranny, so stylish in the sorrow that you heap.

You have revealed your splendor, let celebrations start; See the cascade of worship from this devoted heart.

That you asked after me was no great marvel to profess; I am a simple soul, and you, the cherisher of the comfortless.

Asadullah Khan is finished now, his time is past; Alas for that rogue mystic, that connoisseur of beauty, lost at last.