Hai baske har ek unke ishaare mein nishaan aur

In every gesture lies a hidden strain; Their love itself is something else again.

O Lord, my words they never will make plain; Give them new hearts, if my tongue can't be something else again.

That glance connects not to the brow's soft strain; The arrow's set, but the bow is something else again.

If you're in town, then what is all my pain? I'll find a heart and soul for sale that's something else again.

Though we are deft at breaking every chain, Our own self is a heavy stone that's something else again.

My heart's blood seethes, my tears pour out like rain; I need more eyes to weep a blood that's something else again.

For that one voice I'd die, though I'd be slain, If she would tell the headsman, "Yes, and something else again."

The people think they see the sun's domain; Each day I show a hidden pain that's something else again.

Had I not died, I would have lived to complain, And passed my days in sighs and grief that's something else again.

When my laments are blocked, they break their chain; When my own nature's stopped, it flows as something else again.

The world has many poets, it is plain; But they say Ghalib's mode of speech is something else again.