dhota hoon jab main peene ko us seem-tan ke paaon

When I bow to wash her silver feet, to drink the hallowed flow, she, in playful spite, withdraws them from the basin's glow.

I'd give my life for the faith in the mountain-hewer's tread; alas, that the wicked crone's own feet did not shatter instead.

I fled so far, and this is my punishment, it seems: now captured, I must press the very highwayman's feet.

In searching for a balm, I've wandered far and wide; my own feet are more broken than this weary frame of mine.

O, what a passion for the wild, this wanderlust of mine! Even in my shroud, my feet still trace a restless line.

So fierce the rush of blossoms in the spring's profusion, that flying birds find their own feet caught in the sweet confusion.

Could she have walked through someone's dreamscape in the night? Today, her delicate feet ache from that phantom flight.

And Ghalib, how could my verse not be sublime? I drink the water that has washed the feet of Khusrau, master of sweet rhyme.