hungaama garm hasti-e-na-paaidaar ka

This fleeting world's brief, fevered show is love. A lightning's wink, a single spark's brief glow, is love.

I died for her sweet smile, and even so, is love. A lamp now laughs upon my grave below, is love.

Let no dark secrets from your lover flow, is love. No veil of dust upon the heart should grow, is love.

On that bright face, each drop of sweat aglow, is love. A star that shines in morning's vernal show, is love.

Though we're united, to the door I go, is love. This habit of long waiting makes it so, is love.

My letter, faster than a dove will go, is love. Flown from your restless one, whose passions flow, is love.

The pure of heart, what fear of thorns can know, is love? The gaze fears not the eyelash-thorns that grow, is love.

My heart's own fire, in the grave, will glow, is love. A tall Chinar upon my tomb will grow, is love.

See how your earring near your bright cheek's glow, is love. If you've not seen the star of morning's show, is love.

You ask what sweetness bitter teardrops show, is love? The juice of Eden's pomegranate in its flow, is love.

Her eye, with eyelash-screen, now waits to throw, is love. A hunter hidden, waiting for the blow, is love.

O messenger, with dust my letter show, is love. That she may know it's from one brought so low, is love.

O Zauq, if you are wise, then from this world just go, is love. This tavern has no place for those who think they know, is love.