Ze-baske mashq-e-tamasha junoon-alamat hai

This ritual of sight is madness' final claim, The closing of my eyes, a stinging slap of shame.

I know not how to clear my faithless, broken name, For you, the mirror's truth becomes a vortex of all blame.

Don't break the silken thread of peace in passion's twisting game, A glance of helplessness becomes your safety's very frame.

When loyalty's opposed, love's vows are not the same, This false-made madness sees the spring become a final flame.