Ghaafil ba-vehm-e-naaz khud-aara hai varna yaan

The vain mind, trapped within its own self-praise, Ignores the wind that gives the grass its grace.

From festive cups, seek no delight to chase; The prize has fled the trap of time and place.

His mercy may accept—what is more true? The best appeal against your past disgrace Is shame that leaves no argument in place.

With what delight I go to meet my doom; The thought of wounds has filled my gaze with grace And made a garden of that killing-place.

My life, Asad, hangs waiting for one glance; The moth who burns shall advocate my case, And argue with its death for your embrace.

Those wearied by the journey of the gaze Now choose seclusion from the worldly race; The wine-cup is a blister on their pace.

The heart itself, for those who live in pain, Is but a blister underfoot; what trace Of fear can hardship find upon their face?

Each atom of a sigh, a peacock poised, Prepared to show its beauty and its grace; My God, my breath is dust from what bright place?

My collar, torn by love's beseeching art, Reflects the prideful tilt of your cap's lace; I am the mirror of that haughty grace.