Naqsh-e-naaz-e-but-e-tannaz be-aaghosh-e-raqeeb

That cruel beauty's artful pose, held in a rival's hands, a peacock's foot for Mani's brush, this living scene demands.

You are so cruel, my awe becomes a show for your dark glance, while grief's a tale that from the soul a frantic telling demands.

The fever of desire is such, that like a candle's flame, a fire that runs through every vein, a deeper path demands.

So thirsty for the spectacle, if it should beg for grace, the mirror would forsake its flow, a static state demands.

When showing the assembly's ruin, color from the rose's face demands each petal be a shard of shattered ruby glass.

Her tangled hair, a scattered text of some chaotic plea, yet like a comb, each hair-as-tongue, a scribe of Mani's grace demands.

Don't greet that new-grown line with smiles, a sweetness out of place, lest the ant's eye, as guardian, your heart's clear mirror demands.

I'm trapped inside the ambush of your disregard so deep, where from the hunter, even sleep, a burdened flight demands.

The eye is set for flight, the breath is still, but hope's last trace a wing of straw to bear its news, a fragile vessel demands.

The frenzy of this spectacle is such, that like a rose's scent, the salt upon my heart's deep wound, a wide dispersal demands.

If from the tomb of the great Bedil, a single line appears, then Asad, for the flight of sense, a crystal mirror demands.