Mehfil mein shor-e-qulqul-e-meena-e-mul hua

The flask's song rose, a gurgling, sweet acclaim; Bring wine, O Sāqi, my resolve went up in flame.

For those who once beheld your cheek's consuming flame, A lamp was lit that Judgment Day cannot reclaim.

Behold the grace of God, that Man, this fragile frame, Was made to know the Whole, to speak its secret name.

To cross the river of my grief, her curving frame Of tempered steel, a saving bridge of iron became.

The moth burned true, and never spoke its lover's name; From the impatient nightingale, the loud complaint then came.

Though truth was beat as loud as any drum's proud claim, The hollow-hearted could not comprehend the same.

Without her, Zauq, the garden fills my heart with shame; Each tender rose-leaf, like a sharpened dagger, came.