Dil hi to hai na sang-o-khisht, dard se bhar na aaye kyun-

It is a heart, not stone and brick, that fills with pain; We'll weep a thousand times—why should a soul be slain?

No temple here, no holy shrine, no door, no sacred fane; We sit upon the public road; why should a stranger then complain?

When beauty’s face, a sun at noon, inflames the gaze, And burns the sight itself, why hide in veils of haze?

Your glance, a dagger taking life; your grace, an arrow's bane; Your mere reflection is enough; why face the source of all this pain?

The prison of this life, the chains of sorrow's strain, Are one and the same; till death, why should relief be gained?

Such beauty, and such faith in me—what abject shame Is left for shallow hearts; why test another's flame?

There, her proud airs; here, my reserve, my need to guard my name; We cannot meet by chance; to her salon, why should she lay a claim?

So she’s no saint, you say, and faithless is her game; If faith and heart are dear to you, why walk the lane that bears her name?

What worldly tasks are stalled for wretched Ghalib's name? Why all this bitter weeping? Why cry "alas" in vain?