Nukta-cheen hai gham-e-dil uss ko sunaye na bane

My grief’s a critic; what I mean, I can’t convey. No case is made, no words can say it cannot be.

I call to her, but passion, make her feel so swayed She’s forced to come, yet finds the way it cannot be.

She thinks it’s all a game, and might just go astray; I wish, without her taunts, to live a day it cannot be.

My rival flaunts your letter in such proud display, That if he’s asked to hide it, to obey it cannot be.

A curse on such fine grace! What if she’s kind today? If she were in my reach, my hands to lay it cannot be.

Who dares to say whose splendor is on this display? He’s left a veil that can’t be moved away—it cannot be.

I watch for death, which never fails to find its way; I long for you; if you don’t come, my pleas to not convey it cannot be.

A burden’s fallen that I can’t lift from the clay; A task’s arrived that, managed any way, it cannot be.

On love, O Ghalib, you can have no force or sway; It is a fire you can’t light, or allay—it cannot be.