Faryad ki koi lai nahin hai

A cry of pain knows not a measured play, its bond to any flute or reed is not real.

Why plant the gourds that for the wine make way, if the garden's thirst for it is not real?

Though You are present in a thousand ways, a thing that's truly like You is not real.

Don't trust existence, this illusory display; though all insist 'It is!', it is not real.

To be free of grief, let joy not hold its sway, without the sowing, harvest day's not real.

O pious man, why push the cup away? This is true wine; a fly's sick gift is not real.

Existence is naught, nor nothingness, Ghalib, so what are you? O, You Who Are Not Real!