Bagh-e-aalam mein jahan nakhl-e-hina lagta hai

Where henna trees in this world’s garden grow, A blood-filled heart’s own handprint seems to show.

How lovely is the half-slain heart's wild plea, When leaping from my breast, to yours it seems to flee.

My heart from all this world’s delights turns away; Attached to you, my life seems a bleak display.

The one who falls to fate and won’t rise anew, Like a storm-uprooted tree appears to view.

The joy of love is that, for its sharp fare, The salt on a heart’s wound is a taste most rare.

On separation's night, my tongue won't find its rest, Nor does my side against the mattress press.

My heart’s deep wound on toxic balm must now depend; Your very laughter like a poison seems to descend.

Your dagger’s gleam, a poison to my vow, Seems like the water at death’s border now.

Majnun’s frame is like a willow, bent and frayed; When he bows down, his head to his feet is laid.

The cleric’s pale, but his heart’s alloy is base; Zauq, on the stone this "gold" must find its place.