Rukh-e-nigaar se hai soz-e-jaavedaani-e-shama

From the beloved’s face, its endless burning gains the candle, The rose’s fire becomes a life-sustaining rain for the candle.

For those with tongues, a silent fate is death itself, we’re told, A truth the gathering now sees, as its own tongue explains the candle.

It ends its tale completely at the gesture of the flame, In the style of those who perish, its own story thus ordains the candle.

O flame, it grieves the moth’s desire, a longing unfulfilled, Your trembling shows the weakness that so visibly now strains the candle.

At just the thought of you, my very spirit starts to shake, Like wind that makes it scatter light, and nothing then contains the candle.

Don’t ask about the joy that from the scar of sorrow springs, Its bloom is like an autumn rose that martyrdom sustains, the candle.

It burns with jealousy to see me by my love's bedside, Why shouldn't my own heart then bear the scar its mistrust maintains, the candle?