Zakhm par chhidkein kahan tiflaan-e-be-parwa namak

Those careless children won't apply to wounds their salt; what joy there'd be if even stone possessed some salt.

The dust your footsteps grace adorns my heart's deep wound; what other kind on earth could have such perfect grace?

Let my share be the pain, and yours the prize you've won: the nightingale's lament, the smiling rose's art.

Whose wild ride stirred the shore to such a frantic state? Today, its dust gives the sea's wounded waves their sting.

He cries out 'Bravo!' praising this deep wound inside my heart; and thinks of me wherever he can find its painful trace.

What shame to leave your lover's wounded body in this state; my heart demands more wounds, my limbs all cry aloud for zest.

I will not beg another for the gift of deeper pain; my wound, like my killer's smile, is from head to foot all edge.

Do you recall those days, O Ghalib, in that rapturous state, when from my wound it fell, I'd gather with my lashes, salt.

This ritual is not for simple pleasure, Asad, understand; it's how the salted fish gives to the waiting wine its savor.