Junoon tohmat-kash-e-taskeen na ho gar shadmani ki

Don't charge my frenzy with the crime of seeking placid joy; the salt that stings a wounded heart is life's true ecstasy.

Why struggle to be free from life’s perpetual unrest? A river’s wave is only chained by its own flowing quest.

In death, this madman’s grave becomes a shrine for children’s games; the sparks from stones they throw become a shower of bright floral flames.

O failing hand, don't pull the tangled braid of your desire; more scattered than a painter’s stroke is what your plans inspire.

Let’s be fair, what strength is left in sinew or in bone? Don’t slander the great effort of a yawn as weakness I have shown.

No ceremony now—the carver showed such hurried, facile art; the thought was light, but the king’s dream weighed heavy on his heart.

The wave of being rolled up Asad in a mat of straw and burned him whole; yet even in this beggar’s ash, a youthful mischief fills his soul.