gayin yaaron se woh agli mulaqaton ki sab rasmein

The old ways with friends are gone, the rituals of meeting past, since my heart fell captive to you, and I, captive to my heart.

Sometimes together, sometimes apart, like eyelashes on an eye; it is a game the faithless play, beyond the reach of sincerity.

What hope of life remains for one who is sick with your absence, whose pulse no longer stirs, whose skin has lost all its warmth?

Ah, if this high-handed power should reveal its true might, the satin sky would strike its hand on the very hem of Judgment.

The one who sits in seclusion, lost in thought of your arched brow, dwells in the idol's temple and the holy shrine at once.

How could this breath find the strength to form a word of complaint in your breathless one, your helpless one, lost in adoration?

What wonder if the wind from your lane should carry him away? His soul resides in his frail form like scent in withered grass.

How can I ever trust another promise or another vow, when they have given thousands of promises and sworn a million oaths?

The themes of two worlds, Zauq, are gathered in my art; the five human senses, bound in a quintain's heart.