shab-e-akhtar qadah-e-aish ne mehmil baandha

The star-cup of delight, its journey fraught with pain, was bound; A hundred blistered caravans, their goal a dusty plain, was bound.

My rosary of weary longing, a spectacle made plain, was bound; On the path, a hundred mirrored goals, a jewel of deep pain, was bound.

Suppressing tears, a blister-pearl was born from inner pain, was bound; And to a hundred storm-tossed waves my heart, a heavy chain, was bound.

Alas, desire's disgrace! For modesty, in vain, was bound; A single drop of sweat, a mirror to my plea of pain, was bound.

The chaos of beauty's flash, its claim of power, in vain, was bound; By a mere thread of hair, a futile argument again was bound.

The fever of desire, which preens its mirror, brought this pain, was bound; A letter of my longing to a slaughtered bird's last flutter, in vain, was bound.

From eye to heart, one mirror bright with lamps that burn in vain, was bound; Who on this private space, the trappings of a crowd, again was bound?

Hopelessness, to write new themes of lingering, drunken pain, was bound; To make the wave's small alley seem the shore's wide yawn, in vain, was bound.

My heart's own musician, Ghalib, with my breath's own thread of pain, was bound, To tune his instrument to echo Bedil's complex song again, was bound.