Na khencho aashiq-e-tishna-jigar ke teer pehlu se

Don't pull the arrow from this soul-parched lover's breast, Or I'll be lifeless as a painted fish, at my side laid to rest.

O archer-love, don't try to tear my heart out from my side; It left already with a sigh, like the first arrow, from my side.

My shredded heart, stitch as an amulet to wear, O merciless divine, this sword-belt of despair Has never slipped an inch away from my own side.

A helpless victim, writhing, limbs without their might, I reached to touch my killer's feet from under the sword's light, Which never leaves its station, here beside my side.

O watchman, see these madmen, by her hair enslaved; At night, sit close and hold the chains their feet have craved, And press them down securely, right beside your side.

The artist mourns for Layla, for Majnun's despair, For even in a portrait, they could never share A single frame, a painted side to painted side.

This heart, which thirsts for your sword's edge, all through the night Lets out a martyr's cry for thirst with all its might, A wail that seizes darkness, rising from my side.

What desperate longing, when Majnun would always plead, "O Fate, release her litter from this path I lead, Or else release my very soul from this my side."

Don't call these bones; my body's wasted to this state Where you can see my grieving heart, sealed by its fate, Now showing through the hollow frame of my own side.

The thought of her curved eyebrow, I can't put away; It is a soldier who, by night and through the day, Will never part the sharpened sword from his own side.

The masters in the court of verse, O Zauq, all stand amazed At how you found this perfect rhyme, this phrase you've raised, And wrote a whole ghazal upon "from my own side."