Nala juz husn-e-talab ae sitam-ejaad nahin

My cry is but for beauty, from the cruelty you've made; It is what your art demands, not a complaint I've laid.

Why praise the love that toiled for kings, a wage so poorly paid? The fame of Farhad's martyrdom is not a choice we've made.

The ruin is no less, but in its vastness I have strayed; Such bliss is in this wasteland that the thought of home has faded.

For those with sight, the storm of life's a school where debts are paid; A wave's hard slap is no less than a master's hand has laid.

Alas, my failed surrender! My devotion is betrayed; He knows I lack the strength to make the cry I should have made.

Why are the rose and tulip's hues in such disarray displayed? If on the wind's own path, a row of lamps has not been laid.

The picker hides his prize beneath the flowers he has weighed; Good news, O bird! Within the garden, no hunter has strayed.

It seems that affirmation from denial is conveyed; A space for lips was granted, but no mouth itself was made.

In splendor, Paradise itself can't match the lane you've made; The blueprint is the same, but not so vibrantly arrayed.

With what face, Ghalib, can you claim that exile has you flayed? Have all the cold betrayals of your friends back home just faded?