Jis bazm mein tu naaz se guftaar mein aave

When you with charming pride begin to speak your art, A soul into a painted form you would impart.

The cypress and the pine would follow, torn apart From pride, if you into the garden played your part.

Then pride in precious tears becomes a worthy art, When my heart’s blood into each weeping eye should start.

O tyrant, let me speak of all my pain and smart, So you might find some pleasure tearing me apart.

If your enchanting eye should but a sign impart, The mirror, like a parrot, would begin its art.

The thorns’ own tongues are parched with thirst, a cruel art; Let one with blistered feet into this valley start.

Why should I not just die from envy’s bitter smart, When in the rival’s sacred thread you play your part?

If lust for gold did not tear honor all apart, Why would the rose leave gardens for the crowded mart?

O wailing heart, to tear your collar is an art Only when tangled breaths in every thread take part.

My breast, a fire-temple, keeps a secret’s art; Alas, if its hidden truth should ever once depart.

Consider it a spell for meaning’s hidden art, Each word that Ghalib places in his poem’s heart.