Hasad se dil agar afsurda hai garm-e-tamasha ho

If envy withers the heart, let it burn with the vision, So the constricted gaze, by a wealth of wonders, may be opened.

The thirst for trespass must match the heart's own vast despair; I’d fill but a corner of my robe, though the seven seas were there.

Should that cypress-statured one, warm with a proud gait, arrive, Each handful of garden dust, like a lamenting dove, would cry.

The desert’s stone and flower, growing as one, desire this: That the road’s thin thread for the mountain a sacred girdle is.

I can only rival the wild pride of love’s passing breeze When my heart, like a bud, holds a garden, prepared for release.

Instead of grain for my harvest, a desert of turtledove eggs; My yield is the formula from which only dust is made.

What use is the craft of seeing to the martyr of awareness’s pain, For whom ecstasy’s finest nerve becomes Zuleikha’s dream?

A heart like a candle, inviting the spectacle, is a vain affair, If the gaze is not brimming with tears, and the breast with longing filled.

May we see no cold heart, save the flame of a camphor candle; O God, let Asad’s gathering in this way with the spectacle burn.