Na hoga yak-biyabaan maandagi se zauq kam mera

My spirit's passion, deserts can't debase, my; A bubble on the moving wave is all my trace, my.

I once loved gardens, and their green embrace, But now their scent just fills a choking, airless space, my.

The sleeping path was arrogant, in need of grace, My footstep is a teacher's slap upon its face, my.

I am the Judgment's roar, a trace through time and space, My dust flies past non-being's final, empty place, my.

The dawn wind tears the collar of the rose with grace, To hold my grief, a wound must open in that place, my.

Seek not a lesson in a mirage you can't retrace, I am but road-dust, aimless is my winding pace, my.

Asad adores the wildness in his heart's lone space, My flight's the wine that settles with a gentle grace, my.