Dost gham-khwaari mein meri sa'i farmaaveinge kya

My friends will try to soothe my pain, what then? My nails will grow to scratch the wound again, what then?

Your coldness knows no bounds, my dear patron; I'll state my heart's condition, all in vain, what then?

The Preacher comes, I'll welcome him, it's plain, But can you tell me what he will explain, what then?

With sword and shroud I seek her dark domain; What false excuse for murder will remain, what then?

The Preacher had me captured? Let him chain; Will this mad love's wild habits then refrain, what then?

We're native to her locks, so why flee from a chain? As loyal captives, why should we complain, what then?

A famine of love's sorrow, Asad, brings this pain; We'll live in Delhi, yes, but eat what kind of grain, what then?