Dard minnat-kash-e-dawa na hua

My pain would not be indebted to a cure; I did not heal, nor did my state grow worse.

Why gather all your rivals for the show? A scene was made, but my complaint would not be known.

Where can I go to have my fortune tried? When you yourself won't test the blade you keep aside.

How sweet your lips must be, that my own rival found Your curses sweet, and was not soured by their sound.

The rumor of your coming is alive; And on this day, not even a straw mat could my house provide.

Was this the godhood of a Nimrod, cold and vast? For all my worship, no good fortune was amassed.

I gave the life that she had given from the start; The truth is that the duty was not done on my part.

The wound, though pressed, would not staunch its own red flow; The task, though stalled, would not let its momentum go.

Is this a bandit’s raid, or a heart-thief’s art? He took my heart, and with my heart, he did depart.

"Do speak some verse," the people have begun to say, "For Ghalib has not sung a single ghazal today."