Zakhmi hoon tere naavak-e-duzdida-nazar se

I'm wounded by your stolen glance's hidden snare; This thief won't leave the wound inside my soul's despair.

I know the secret of your waist, a thing of air, A thread pulled from the very pearl my heart must bear.

If he returns alive from Mecca's distant prayer, The Sheikh has only left God's house, not been there.

What treasure of great hope is left for me to share? A single sigh, whose only source is my despair.

The ones who give show grace in how they act and care; The fruitful branch shows blossoms first, before the fruit is there.

The mountains, in my frenzy's wake, for my mad quest prepare; They've tied their rocky skirts to follow me somewhere.

Let crystal goblets overflow with wine so rare; I have no need for Zamzam's well, or stone, or stair.

My tears become a river flowing past all care; This journey to your door's my pilgrimage, my prayer.

The cry of the oppressed is a drawn sword in the air, A blow that heaven's shield itself could never bear.

My heart remains a sealed-off room, a dark affair; How is it that you enter? I am quite unaware.

Such is my madness' heat, that when my feet but flare Against the stones, they fly as sparks into the air.

It's not beyond God's grace that if the drunks should share A single tear, the clouds would rain down wine to spare.

Whose dark, drunk eyes have slain me? Answer me my prayer! For heady stupor drips from trees above my lair.

My groans have caused a festering wound beyond repair; Why shouldn't pus drain from a heart of iron there?

Oh Zauq, to meet a long-lost friend is joy beyond compare, More than to meet with Christ and Khidr, who banish all despair.