Balaaein aankhon se un ki madaam lete hain

The endless ills that from their eyes proclaim, is what they take; With lashes, not with hands, we press our claim, is what they take.

When from their tresses madness we would seek to claim, The principal and price, they state their aim, is what they take.

For one brief night of union, my fates exact their shame; Through endless days of parting, my revenge they claim, is what they take.

The moon is not the only slave to bear their brand of shame; A thousand souls like it, they buy and chain, is what they take.

We praise their might, but true strength we maintain belongs to those Who in love’s frantic reign, a restless heart restrain; is what they take.

The ones you slay with grace will not reveal your name; When asked who is the killer, Death is who they blame; is what they take.

Your captives, Fowler, when they cry aloud in pain, Beneath your net, no second breath they deign to gain; is what they take.

The crescent moon has bowed its head, a silver flame; With beauty’s pride, whose greeting could they deign to claim? A silent awe is what they take.

All worldly chaos follows where your graceful footsteps aim; It learns its very motion from your walking-frame; its cue is what they take.

O Zauq, at the appointed hour for pouring wine, they deign To take one cup from our own hand with coy disdain; a single glass is what they take.