Hai kis qadar halaak-e-fareb-e-wafa-e-gul

How slain we are by the false grace of the rose; The bulbul's labor meets the laughing face of the rose.

Praise the free breeze, for in this open space, Lie broken rings, the fragrant, binding trap of the rose.

What was, has died, deceived by waves of radiant grace; Alas, the wail from the blood-singing lips of the rose.

How blessed that rival, drunk on darkness and on grace, Who keeps his head, like a shadow, at the base of the rose.

The spring invents its form for you, to take my place; My rival is the perfumed, shadowed breath of the rose.

I am ashamed before the spring wind's soft embrace; My cup holds no wine, my heart feels no desire for the rose.

Before the force of your proud beauty's jealous grace, Its vibrant style appears as blood upon the rose.

It is your beauty's ghost that sets this frantic pace, That makes a flower chase the phantom of the rose.

O Ghalib, I desire to hold in my embrace The one whose thought is the flower in the pocket of the rose.

For madmen, spring's own splendor is their only grace; On the branch, a fair hand rests, in the place of the rose.

How can my heart's torn fragments find a weeping-space? Alas, if one's own gaze is not acquainted with the rose.