Garm-faryaad rakha shakl-e-nihaali ne mujhe

My sapling form was kept in constant, crying frailty, Till separation’s nights gave refuge in their cruelty.

I knew the truth of credit, cash, and all reality, And was undone by my own spirit’s soaring vanity.

This show of Many from the One is worship of a fallacy; These idols of the mind have made a heretic of me.

The ghost of longing for the rose has learned to let me be; A strange peace comes from this, my wingless, bare humility.

Through all my life I’ve been obsessed with longing to be free; This empty cup has granted me a fearsome ecstasy.

The garden of my verse was in its autumn’s poverty; No fame was granted for my thought’s refreshing novelty.

As dewdrops, Ghalib, vanish in the sun’s bright majesty, I too am lost before the Names of Divine Majesty.