Yeh iqaamat hamein paigham-e-safar deti hai

This brief abode, a call to fare away, she gives, And life, of death's approach, a word to say, she gives.

The world's an ancient witch in her display; she gives, The man of faith a path to lead astray, she gives.

The more her cruelties become her practiced way, she gives, My love, a strange correction to obey, she gives.

What use is medicine? It can't allay; she gives, The cure itself would now my health betray, she gives.

O candle, fear no grief, for soon the day she gives, A shroud of camphor-white to light your way, she gives.

The bud that laughs with such a bold array, she gives, A slap from morning's breeze without delay, she gives.

The candle's love is just as true, I'll say; she gives, He gives his life, his head she gives away, she gives.

A wound on wound, no moment to allay, she gives, Her sword-like glance that grants no moment's stay, she gives.

Though I say nothing in this dark dismay, she gives, My heart's lament, my soul's deep sigh, in its own way, she gives.

My own dark fate brings shadows and dismay; she gives, The blame upon her raven hair I lay, she gives.

From eyelash-trees, what strange new fruits today she gives, Instead of water, my soul's blood as pay, she gives.

Your poison-eyes, to whom a sweet display she gives? That very poison is a grace, I say, she gives.

No spy speaks for me, Zauq, in any way; she gives, My own laments the words that fill her day, she gives.