maane-e-dasht-nawardi koi tadbeer nahin

To halt my desert-wandering, all schemes are vain, A whirling madness fills my feet; a chain is not.

Desire impels me through a waste where, to the eye, The path is but a painted gaze; a true terrain is not.

The longing for the ecstasy of suffering remains, The path of faith, except a blade's sharp edge, a gain is not.

I welcome the despair that never knows an end, I'm glad my cry for mercy's final gain is not.

Where my head-wound begins to heal, an itching starts to reign, The bliss that stone gave, words can well explain, is not.

When kindness grants me leave for bold and reckless speech, No fault remains, except the shame of that past stain, is not.

Oh Ghalib, this my creed, from Nasikh's verse I claim, He is bereft of grace, in Mir's artistic reign is not.

Of Mir's great verse, what can I say, Ghalib, how to start? His book, less than Kashmir's lush domain, is not.

The mirror hides its silvered trap, a futile, clever art, That fairy-gaze, a thing that you can chain, is not.

My wound, a flower, with the spearhead is now twinned, The issue that your quiver's full, the source of pain, is not.