Yeh na thi hamari qismat ke visaal-e-yaar hota

To be with my Beloved was not my fate; Had I lived longer, waiting was my state.

I lived upon your promise—know that was a lie; I would have died from joy, had I believed it so.

From your own fragile grace, I knew the vow was weak; You could not break the bond, had it been truly deep.

Go ask my heart about your arrow, drawn halfway; This constant torment would be gone, had it but pierced me through.

What kind of friendship makes a friend a judging guide? I wish one were a healer, one to grieve beside.

From veins of stone a blood would flow that would not cease to run; This thing you call my sorrow, had it been a truer one.

Though sorrow takes the soul, the heart cannot escape; If not the grief of love, the world's grief would take shape.

To whom can I describe this awful night of pain? What harm was there in dying, if it did not come again?

If death brought this disgrace, why did I not just drown? No funeral would be held, no tomb would have been known.

Who could have sight of One so singular and vast? If any trace of "two" existed, paths might have been crossed.

This talk of mystic states, these words of yours, Ghalib, We would have called you saint, were you not fond of wine.