Tere tausan ko saba baandhte hain

To your swift steed, a wind divine we bind, And to a theme, an essence of the mind we bind.

Who ever saw a sigh achieve its sign? We too construct a hope of our design we bind.

O Life, against your slow and leisured line, To lightning's foot, a crimson stain's confine we bind.

From life's cruel cage, release appears in fine, When to a tear, its formless, rootless spine we bind.

The rose unfolds, drunk on its color's wine; Not to the rapt a modest robe's design we bind.

Don't ask about my flawed and straying line; To a mere wail, an eloquence divine we bind.

Behold the planners, tired of their own sign, To festering sores, a henna's false confine we bind.

The fair are sly, their simple ways a line; With us, O Ghalib, vows of faith divine we bind.

When on her feet the henna patterns shine, My hands apart, by love's own cruel design, we bind.

The grace of sorrows, painted and benign, Is that to longing's foot, a red confine we bind.

In capture's self, a freedom we define; The chain's own eye to hold a vast design we bind.

O Sheikh, your trip to Mecca seems divine, While in the mosque, your ass to that same shrine we bind.

Whose heart, O Asad, flees a tangled line, That the comb's hand to Judgment's own design we bind?

They cry against your lover, pale and fine; To folded script a useless cure's design we bind.