Hazaaron khwahishein aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle

A thousand wishes, each could make my spirit cease; So many of my dreams came true, yet brought so little peace.

Why should my slayer fear the guilt or coming stain? When from my weeping eyes, through all my life of pain, A constant stream of blood would always flow.

Of Adam's fall from Eden, all the tales are told; But in far deeper shame, from your lane, I was expelled of old.

The myth, my tyrant, of your stature would be lost, If all the tangled curls your lovely tresses tossed Were measured, and their winding length were truly known.

Should she need letters written, let them ask of me; At dawn, my pen on ear for all the world to see, Prepared for her command, I left my home.

In this new age, they link my name with drinking wine, As though the world had entered that old age divine When Jamshid's fabled cup first came to be.

The very ones from whom I sought some praise for pain, Proved even more afflicted by a cruel disdain; They bore more wounds from tyranny's sharp sword.

In love, there is no space 'twixt life and death's dark art; I live by looking at the one who holds my heart— That cruel beloved for whom my soul would die.

The tavern's door, O Ghalib, and the preacher's creed? What common ground could join them? None, we are agreed. And yet I know, as he went in, I was just stepping out.