Hum par jafa se tark-e-wafa ka gumaan nahi

Don't think your cruelty means my faith is gone; it’s just a game, a true ordeal this is not.

How can I thank this favor, so unique and deep? You ask of me, when need for words there is not.

I hold pain dear, the giver of pain holds me dear; he’s not unkind, though kind to me he is not.

If not a kiss, then grant me your disdainful speech; you have a tongue, though a mouth for me there is not.

Though your contempt and anger melt the very soul, the warmth of strength to bear it all there is not.

My soul, a singer, cries the song, “Is there any more?” A plea for mercy on my trembling lips is not.

Then split my chest if my heart won’t break in two; if your glance can’t draw blood, a sharp edge it has not.

A heart's a shame if it's no sacred, burning fire; a soul's a waste if breath like sparks it gives not.

In madness, let my house be wrecked, it is no loss; for endless desert, the price too high is not.

You ask what fate is written here upon my brow, as if the brand of idol-worship there is not.

From this, I sense a kind of judgment for my art; though the Holy Spirit my companion is not.

A life’s the price for one kiss, but why say that now? He knows this soul of Ghalib half-alive is not.

In any place the flood of ruin has not passed, for the insane, a longing for a home is not.

The bud, unopened, drowns in its own sea of hue; O insight, tell me where illusion’s trap is not?

For what crime, O my eye, do you accept this ache? Is henna’s stain a blood-wept lash that it is not?

Each turn of fate’s bright mirror gives new birth to pain; the cloud’s tear is nothing but a farewell to the fall.

What can I do but be helpless in my desire for self-loss? The strength to fight this heavy, endless sleep is not.

Ask wisdom of the pain of a bewildered gaze; this dust of doubt is nothing but the path of trial.

Asad, a lightning bolt ignites your patient soul; O weary heart, the strength to hold your cry is not.