Reham kar zaalim ke kya bood-e-charaagh-e-kushta hai

Show mercy, tyrant—what is left to dread? It is a lamp burnt out and dead. My loyalty's last pulse is smoke that's shed; it is a lamp burnt out and dead.

A longing for diversion keeps this restless heart unfed; Else, this bleak stillness is the profit bred by a lamp burnt out and dead.

Wine's high without a garden is a joyless path I've tread; The cup, a scar with memory's flame o'erspread: a lamp burnt out and dead.

If roses die, we are the stain they've bled, O garden-bred; The tulip is an eye with sorrow fed, a lamp burnt out and dead.

What gathering's clamor shows a house where sorrows bred? The dawn's a field of salt, the profit read from a lamp burnt out and dead.