Junoon ki dastgiri kis se ho gar ho na uryaani

What aid can sacred madness find, if not in being bare? The torn collar's claim is now a debt for me to bear.

Like scorched paper, see the magic of this restless state, A thousand mirrored hearts are tied to one hair's trembling fate.

From fate we claim our vanished joys with such insistent pleas, As if our stolen goods were loans owed by the one who seized.

She, my foe who courts distress, for no good reason's sake, Accuses sunbeams at the crack of the watch my glances make.

If you desire your truth, then give yourself to nothingness and fade, For the glory of the worthless straw is in the furnace made.

See how Asad, the victim, to his graceful killer cries: "Perfect your art; the blood of worlds upon my own neck lies."

The joy in tyranny is a spell of single-hearted might, As lightning, like a moth, finds bliss in setting fields alight.

Formality's a constant thorn, a plea of restless plight, A thread that ties the garment to the needle's finger tight.

O madman, why this frantic grief, this wail before you die? On such a misplaced cornerstone your house of chains can't lie.