Tapish se meri waqf-e-kashmakash har taar-e-bistar hai

My fever makes each fiber a taut chain in this bed of pain. My head's a grief, my body is a strain in this bed of pain.

My tears, meant for the desert, fall like endless, bitter rain; My helpless heart finds its one worldly gain in this bed of pain.

Oh, joy, the luck of sickness! You have come to me, it's plain; The candle's flame now brightens, fortune wakes again in this bed of pain.

In the wild storm of my restless, lonely evening's strain, Each thread's a ray of Judgment's dawn, a bright and burning chain in this bed of pain.

The scent of her dark, musky hair does on my pillow still remain; To my great love, Zulaikha's dream seems utterly in vain in this bed of pain.

What can be said, O Ghalib, of the heart's long, separate strain? My restlessness has turned each thread into a thorn of pain in this bed of pain.