Shab keh barq-e-soz-e-dil se zehra-e-abr aab tha

That night, my heart's own fire made the cloud's core melt away; Each circle in the whirlpool was a leaping flame's display.

There, grace made rain its reason to hold its fine steps in check; Here, weeping turned my pillow to a flooding torrent's wrack.

There, thoughts of self-adornment were of stringing pearls with ease; Here, in the crush of tears, the thread of sight was lost on the breeze.

There, blooming roses lit the stream with lamps of vibrant hue; Here, from my weeping lashes, only purest blood ran through.

Here, my tormented head, from sleeplessness, would seek the wall; There, your proud head was lost upon a silken pillow's fall.

Here, my own breath would light the candle of an ecstatic trance; There, flowers were the carpet for your friends' light-hearted dance.

There, floor to sky, a storm of color was a vibrant tide; Here, earth to heaven was a chapter where all things had died.

Then suddenly my heart began to weep its blood anew— A heart that found its pleasure in a nail that scratched it through.