Ek ja harf-e-wafa likha tha so bhi मिट gaya

A word of faith was written there, and even that is gone; It seems the paper of your note a bearer of error is.

Why not feel torment that my thirst for ruin is not whole? I am not burned, though every breath a furnace of fire is.

A hiss escapes the flame when plunged and dying in the stream; Each helpless thing, when trapped by fate, compelled by its despair is.

The One who pardons the wild dance of every speck of dust, The One whose light fills all the space from here to the farthest star is.

Don't say to me, "You called me Life," a phrase you once held true; For of that very life itself my heart these days so sore is.

I've drawn an eye upon the seal, a message plain to see, So you might know how deep the ache for one glance held so dear is.