Shumar-e-subha marghoob-e-but-e-mushkil-pasand aaya

My idol, who adores a difficult trial, was a beauty to behold; The sight of countless hearts caught in one hand with casual style, was a beauty to behold.

Through hopelessness, a strange and lasting peace can be distilled; For fate's release, my life's hard puzzle, when at last fulfilled, was a beauty to behold.

Her wish to watch the garden of the dying is a cruel mirror still; The way the sacrifice, in blood, would writhe with graceful skill, was a beauty to behold.

From flowing waves of blood that from the dying victim spill, The killer's art, to walk away without a thought or will, was a beauty to behold.

Asad, my every verse lays out a garden, fresh and new, until I saw great Bedil’s spring-creating style, a constant thrill, was a beauty to behold.

The victim’s dying eye, a canvas for the artist’s finest quill; The killer’s careless, graceful stride, a devastating chill, was a beauty to behold.

Who knows that life is but a fleeting spring, a moment's fill, Saw in his wine, like a tulip’s heart, the veiled litter on the hill, was a beauty to behold.