Ae Zauq waqt naale ke rakh le jigar pe haath

O Zauq, when you cry out, your own heart you must command, or you will weep for it, and raise a grieving hand.

No patience left, no peace, no rest within this heart, your glance has plundered all, and with a sweeping hand.

My heart consumes love's sorrow now with such a hungry art, like one who starves and falls on a rich dessert with eager hand.

He gave the note, and longed to add what words can't quite impart, but someone stilled the messenger's own heart with a soft hand.

O Doctor, do not scorch your fingers like a five-branched star, by feeling for the pulse of this scorched soul, and placing there your hand.

O killer, what new cruelty, how deep you drive the scar, you never bless the grave of one your glance has slain, with your cool hand.

I am so weak, the dust of a burnt moth, a thing blown far, I only rise by leaning on the morning breeze with my faint hand.

O candle, know the morning breeze is a thief who's come to mar your golden crown; he'll strike your very flame with his swift hand.

Ah Zauq, I fell, and clutched my heart, its every door ajar, when she just stood, with such a grace, and on her hip she laid a hand.