Gham nahin hota hai aazaadon ko besh az-yak-nafas

The free know grief for just a single breath; With lightning’s flash we light the house of grief.

Our restless thought, a gambler, spoils the game, Shuffling the cards in falsehood’s painted fane.

Though worlds of tumult rage, no sign appears; We are the light a burning moth’s heart bears.

This lack of striving is not peace, but blight; A weight upon the very throne of might.

A million longings in this breast are chained, A blood-filled prison, Asad, self-ordained.

So drunk, we are the breaking of the bar; We see the measure in a hairline scar.

Since every strand of hair is light’s own thread, We take the sun’s bright hand to comb our head.

Lost in the garden of the mind’s domain, We read the dreams of unfamiliar grain.

In sleepless nights of parting, we’re the mark Left by the candle’s story in the dark.

In sorrow’s dusk, by love’s hot-cheeked desire, We shed our wings like moths consumed by fire.

Our wish, unvoiced, is like a comb’s despair: A thousand thirsty tongues that grasp at air.

Let storms of sheer indifference wreck the world, We are the tale to liquid essence swirled.

Ask not of being’s wild and tangled skein; We are the shame of growth, a madman’s mane.