pa-ba-daaman ho raha hoon baske main sahra-navard

My wandering feet are pinned, though I must go; The thorns now burnish my knee's mirror through for me.

When we embrace, my heart is overwhelmed; Each hair on you becomes a knowing view for me.

I am an instrument of pure complaint; So do not play upon me in plain view for me.

My life-long search for rest has brought me chains; The fleeing deer has forged a bond anew for me.

O, waiting, for oblivion I yearn; The hourglass sand is a frantic deer I view for me.

In thought, I found a voice that speaks my part; My pupil is a parrot, speaking true for me.

Your memory's lashes are a field of blades; In this torment, a hundred sides cut through for me.

This restless life is not without a goal; It seeks one moment, head to knee, held true for me.

I need the cure from the same blade that struck; Your brow's dark dye is poison-ointment's hue for me.

The tyrants' beauty has unhinged my soul; And made the Victor, Ghalib, harsh to view for me.

A moment's rest is non-existence's crisis; To turn in bed shatters potential's hue for me.

Old age, Asad, is death's own overture; My stooping frame holds an eyebrow's curve anew for me.