Faarigh mujhe na jaan ke maanind-e-subh-o-mehr

Don't think me free, for like the sun that rises every dawn, Love's scar still decorates the shroud I will put on.

The bankrupt boasts of gold he can no longer own; From this old wound, I still sell flowers that have grown.

In my soul's tavern, not a speck of dust is shown, Yet that cruel artist-idol yawns upon her throne.

My path desires the freedom of a soul alone, But chains of worldly love still weigh my footsteps down.