bala se hain jo yeh pesh-e-nazar dar-o-deewar

What if they stand before my eyes, a solid bar, the walls, the door? To longing's gaze they are as wings to journey far, the walls, the door.

Such is the color that my flood of weeping starts to pour, My house is nothing but itself, and nothing more: the walls, the door.

No shadow falls; they heard good news you were not far, And stepped some paces forward from where they stood before, the walls, the door.

How freely now the wine of your bright presence you let pour, That in your lane, each one is drunk and asks for more: the walls, the door.

If you would learn the trade of waiting, master its dark art, Then come, for sight is now the ware sold in this mart: the walls, the door.

I never made provision for this flood of grief, this inner war, Lest at my feet they’d fall, brought low by what they saw: the walls, the door.

He comes to live nearby; his passing shadow from afar Makes them a sacrifice unto themselves, just as they are, the walls, the door.

Without you here, the life in this house serves only to mar My sight; I weep each time I see them as they are, the walls, the door.

Don't ask about the joy that welcomes ruin's final war, For see them dancing, though they're strewn across the floor: the walls, the door.

Don't tell a soul that Ghalib is no more, a faded star; Love's secret's rival and its confidant they are: the walls, the door.