Shab ke woh majlis-furoz-e-khalwat-e-namoos tha

That night, she lit the private hall, but all in vain; The wick of every candle felt a thread of piercing pain.

The henna blooming miles from where the martyred lover’s lain Shows how he died, my God, for one foot-kiss desired in vain.

Of love I saw no fruit except for hope’s own bitter pain; Two hearts, when joined, became a single mouth that spoke of pain.

How can I tell of sorrow’s strange, untroubled reign? It drank my heart’s own blood and sought no other food again.

The world’s bright forms are idols, worshipped in a rite so vain; Each scratch my reed-pen made became a temple’s mournful strain.

My nature, when it bloomed, made all the garden's colors wane; This tightly-knotted heart was like a peacock’s egg, so plain.

Last night we saw Asad inside the house of pain; His head was resting on the knee of his own heart, consumed by pain.