baazeecha-e-atfaal hai duniya mere aage

This world is but a children's game, a vast display, Where night and day a spectacle unfolds my way.

The fabled throne of Solomon is but a piece of play, The Savior's miracle, a word I brush away.

The world's appearance is a name I would gainsay, The being of all things, a phantom on its way.

The desert hides in dust when I pass on my way, The river bows its head in dust and must obey.

Don't ask my state when you have turned and gone away; Just see the radiance you possess when on display.

You call me vain, and rightly so; why should I not hold sway? An idol with a mirror-face is on display.

Then watch my words like scattered blossoms light the way, If someone brings a cup of wine without delay.

My envy has surpassed itself, it looks like scorn today, So how can I forbid you speak his name, I pray?

My Faith holds back, while Heresy would have its way; The Kaaba's at my back, the Church is on display.

I am a lover, yet my art is to betray, For even Laila scorns Majnun, and turns my way.

In union's bliss one does not simply waste away, Yet for the night of parting, I began to pray.

A sea of blood is surging; if but this would stay! But who can know what else is coming on its way?

My hands are still, but in my eyes a fire holds sway; So leave the flask and goblet here, and let them stay.

He shares my craft, my secrets, and my drunken way; So why speak ill of Ghalib? He is fine, I say.