Woh aa ke khwaab mein taskeen-e-iztiraab to de

Come to my dreams, and grant my soul some ease— But first, from my heart's fire, grant sleep's release.

Your crying, feigned in fondness, is a killing blow; Grant your sword-glance that same sharp edge to show.

Just move your lips, and make my waiting cease; If not a kiss, then grant a word for my release.

O Saqi, pour from your cupped hands, if you must hate; If not the cup, at least grant wine to seal my fate.

Asad, my very being flowered with delight When she commanded, “Here, just press my feet tonight.”

Who asks this age to make me prosperous and whole? Just grant, sometimes, the one desire of my ruined soul.