dil bache kyuunkar buton ki chashm-e-shokh-o-shang se

How can the heart escape the idol’s bright, enchanting gaze? My own home seems a hundred leagues away, seen from that place.

No cry like my own soul-scarring lament has ever been wrung, Though blood may drip from the sweet-singing nightingale’s own tongue.

Where can you hide from me, O you of vibrant, shifting hue? Whatever form you choose to take, I’ll merge myself with you.

Bravo, such subtlety! As if each thread of speech you’ve spun Is drawn through a fine die, from that small mouth, so finely done.

O master of neglect, come quickly, for you cannot see The ways of this restless heart, this soul in agony.

My flood of tears brought monsoons that for years would not give way, Yet her sharp sword was never seen to rust from all that spray.

The force of my own weeping turned the very stones to streams; Now drops of water, not of sparks, fall from the flint, it seems.

In the sacred prayer of Love, this is the first ablution rite: Command the heart to wash its hands of honor and of slight.

O Zauq, what beauty, if the Sheikh’s white beard were dyed not with dark paste, But bhang-water; his hands with rose-red wine, not henna, graced.