Yak zarra-e-zameen nahin be-kaar baagh ka

No speck of dust is useless, by some grand design of the mind; The path's a wick that burns within the tulip's scarred design of the mind.

Without wine, who could bear the torment you will find of the mind? My fragile will has etched the cup, a boundary defined of the mind.

The roses laugh to see the nightingale's whole kind of the mind, For what the world calls 'love' is but a madness of a kind of the mind.

This poet's trance is not some state I'm new-assigned of the mind; I'm long-addicted to the lamp-smoke, by its art confined of the mind.

A hundred times I've broken free from chains that bind the mind, But what to do? My heart itself leaves freedom left behind of the mind.

Without the heart's own blood, a glance is dust you'll find in the mind; This tavern's wrecked by just the search for wine you'll find in the mind.

Your garden blooms, a board where joy has been designed for the mind, But the spring cloud—whose wine-cask is it, of what kind of the mind?

The rush of spring, Asad, torments the sight you find of the mind; The cloud's a cotton plug that leaves the garden wall stone-blind to the mind.