Bask-e dushwaar hai har kaam ka aasaan hona

So hard is every task, it seems, to make it plain; A man can live, yet find it hard to be humane.

My weeping wills my home to be a ruined place; From every door and wall, a desert drips like rain.

This madness of desire, that drives me to her door, To go, and stand bewildered there, in endless pain.

Her beauty so demands the gaze, a bright, constant refrain; The mirror's soul would be an eyelash, sight to gain.

Ask not about the joy that fills the lover's killing-plain; To see the naked sword is a festival, not pain.

I took to dust the brand of joy I could not gain, While you became a garden, blooming in the rain.

The joy of shattered hearts: to feed on longing's chain; The bliss of inner sores: to be submerged in salt and pain.

She swore off cruelty, but only when I had been slain; Alas, for that quick-to-repent to feel regret in vain.

Pity that scrap of cloth, oh Ghalib, fated to sustain The destiny of being a lover's collar, torn by pain.