Shabnam ba-gul-e-laala na khaali z-adaa hai

The dewdrop on the tulip shows its grace, A heart that cannot feel is a disgrace.

My heart bleeds from the struggle for a trace Of you, whose hennaed hand holds its own face.

The flame itself could never leave this trace Of ruin, like the longing I embrace.

Your image holds such life, such playful grace, The mirror blooms and offers its embrace.

The dove is ash, the songbird finds no space; O cry, what is a soul-on-fire's trace?

Your coldness tamed my heart's once-frenzied pace; A listless beauty is a curious case.

My helplessness, this claim of love's embrace: A hand beneath a stone, sealed in its place.

The fate of lovers past is now clear to trace; Your cruel sword reflects my future face.

O world-bright sun, turn to this darkened place; A shadow's strange despair is what I face.

If this is payment for my sins, I'll plead my case: Reward the sins I longed for, but could not embrace.

Don't let the world's indifference leave its trace; If you have no one, Ghalib, God's love fills that space.