Naala-e-dil mein shab andaaz-e-asar naayaab tha

My heart’s lament, last night, had lost its power to move; A nervous spark at my rival’s feast, so restless was its love.

I saw with my own eyes that storm of calamitous fate, where the lowly sky was but a handful of the flood in its state.

From every wave, thorns grew upon the river’s very dress; my frenzied weeping for the moon was steeped in restlessness.

The pain of watching made my gaze a scene of judgment day; a handful of water was a mirror for the chaos that lay.

Don’t call me unaware; ask your own cold pride instead, in my ocean of perception, the mirror was a shallow riverbed.

O Asad, this apathy! This sorrow’s deeper, sadder tune, remembering days when the joy of friends was a precious boon.

My heart sings a joyful tune to greet the coming tide, for the lover’s house was an instrument for the water’s sound inside.

How can I speak of the pride I took, sitting on ashes and stone? When the flank of my thought on a bed of sable was once regally thrown.

My unfulfilled madness achieved nothing, or else in this place, every single atom was a rival sun in space.

Why today do you not care for the captives in your snare? Until yesterday, your heart was a chapter of love and care.

Remember the day when each ring of the trap you set for me, in waiting for its prey, was a sleepless eye for all to see.

I had to stop Ghalib last night, or you would have seen it all; in his flood of tears, the sky was just a handful of the squall.