Jis zakhm ki ho sakti ho tadbeer rafu ki

A wound that mending can restore anew? That is a fate for my own foe, you see. A wound that mending can restore anew? That is a fate for my own foe, you see.

The thought of hennaed fingers, fresh and new, Creates a drop of blood inside me, you see.

Why fear the lover’s spirit breaking through? No one hears any lover’s cry, you see.

The dagger never touched my soul’s deep hue, The blade ne’er asked my throat, “What of you?”, you see.

Poor Ghalib, what a failure through and through, To want a god who loves to argue, you see.

The pious man’s life is a void, it’s true, But he has his ablutions to pursue, you see.

On my soul’s wound, a sight for all to view, The stitch complains against the mend, you see.