siyahi jaise gir jaaye dam-e-tahreer kaghaz par

Like ink that spills across the page as a new script is begun, My destiny is pictured in the long and lonely night.

How can I speak of the warm cheer of beauties burning bright? The candle of my heart is by the fire of wine set light.

In childhood I rehearsed a fate of everlasting blight; The ink upon my student's slate was blacker than the night.

My morning sigh now does the work of breezes, cool and slight, And makes the coldness of my candle-beauty burn more bright.

I tried to keep my madness from the world's intrusive sight, But what to do when my torn collar brings my shame to light?

Through trials of astonishment, I've gained a strange new sight: Each lash upon my staring eye holds the mirror's inner light.

My God, what dust the seers have sifted, searching day and night; The garden walls are like a sieve, a sorrowful, strange sight.

Bowed by the shame of empty hands, it gives up on the fight; Now watch, my wounded heart, the salt-cellar's tumultuous might.

In memory of warmer days, it burns, a searing light; How, Ghalib, can I hide this scar, so painfully in sight?