Na karta zabt main naala to phir aisa dhuaan hota

If I had not suppressed my sigh of pain, A smoke would rise, a sky of soot and stain would be.

The bird of my heart cries out in its refrain, "Upon her bow, I wish my home's domain would be."

How could this scorched-soul martyr feel no pain? For in a snuffed-out candle, smoke's last stain would be.

If her sharp eyelash did not wound in vain, Why would each hair upon my flesh remain A sharpened spear, by which my heart is slain would be?

For whom does heaven wear this mourning-stain, That like a collar torn, its starry train would be?

O Majnun, if no whirlwind crossed the plain, For restless souls like us, what dome's domain would be?

If in this world's tight flute the lover's pain Poured out as tears, the sky's own starry lane A river, not of light, but bloody rain would be.

If this wise patient could his grief profane, A kiss upon your mole, a sweet domain, would be.

If grass should sprout from where your heart has lain, Then from its blades, like your own eyes, a rain Of blood, a constant, weeping, crimson stain would be.

Her cruel heart's doubt is, at my slaughter, plain: The knife upon my throat, again, again, In fits and starts, moves through both flesh and vein would be.

O Zauq, if I let loose my weeping's rain, In one short moment, heaven's vast domain, Like the clock's sinking bowl, submerged in pain, would be.