Shikwe ke naam se be-mehr khafa hota hai

My love is angered by the words I convey, But even to say that is to complain, in a way.

I’m filled with sorrow, like a lute full of song; Just touch the strings, and you will hear my dismay.

He cannot grasp my words, but see his cruel grace: My pleas for mercy put more wrath on display.

On love’s long journey, the star-scattered sphere Moves like a pilgrim whose sore feet go astray.

Why shouldn’t I be tyranny’s chosen mark? If the arrow misses, I still show it the way.

It would be better if I wished myself ill, For when I hope for good, the bad has its way.

My cries once traveled past the heavenly sphere; Now, with such reach, they die on my lips today.

My pen, the master of the sorrowful line, Now turns to praise the king in a courtly way.

O King of Stars, with sun-flag and cosmic might, Who has the means your majesty to repay?

If all the wealth of seven worlds were amassed, It would not for your army’s horseshoes pay.

Each month the full moon wanes to a silver thread, A brow that at your threshold comes to obey.

And if I’m bold within the ghazal’s domain, It is your grace that shows my talent the way.

Forgive poor Ghalib for his bitter-toned art; The pain inside my heart is deeper today.