Dhamki mein mar gaya jo na baab-e-nabard tha

He died at just a threat, who had no taste for war; For Love, a warrior's art, demands a spirit scarred.

Throughout my life, the dread of death was at the door; My face was pale with fear before my wings could soar.

I sought to bind the manuscripts of faith I'd found, But all my thoughts were scattered leaves upon the ground.

From heart to soul now runs a shore of flowing blood; Where once a rose would gleam, there's only dust and mud.

Can one escape the torment that from passion grows? The heart itself was lost, but not its bitter woes.

My friends could not console my spirit's wild despair; Though locked in jail, my mind still roamed the desert air.

This corpse without a shroud is Asad's, worn with strife; God grant him grace—what a strange, free man he was in life.