Barshkal-e-girya-e-aashiq hai dekha chahiye

Behold the lover’s weeping, a monsoon in its season; a hundred blossoms burst from the breached wall of the garden.

To love the rose and still claim liberation is a lie; the cypress, though so free, stands captive in thrall of the garden.

The rose’s reflection makes the flowerbeds so pure, each thorn becomes a mirror, the reflecting scar of the garden.

Such tenderness the builder in this flowering season shows, each brick is cast in roses, held in awe of the garden.

Spring itself prepares a welcome for your vibrant grace; the mirror’s soul is now a summons, a new law for the garden.

So vanquished by the vibrant style my lover displays, the proud rose casts its crown upon the high wall of the garden.

Now let the poor nightingale play Zulaikha’s desperate part; the rose, a Joseph, is on show in the bazaar of the garden.

Asad, your wild lamenting has no place when flowers bloom; your weeping eye is but a drainpipe, by the law of the garden.