iss sang-e-aastaan peh jabeen-e-niyaaz hai

My brow is bowed upon her threshold-stone, a sacred space; The stone itself my prayer-rug, and the bow my state of grace.

The one who strikes a sour note with me, my heart still plays; What wondrous pride I take in this, which merits endless praise.

My rival reached her roof last night, a shadow in the haze; It’s true the devil’s given rope enough to walk his ways.

If God Himself should love that idol, envy sets my soul ablaze, Though I know well her virtue shines through all her blameless days.

I sing the mole upon my idol’s face in every loving phrase; If God forgives, why be amazed? He loves a subtle turn of praise.

I fear her dagger at my throat will melt into a liquid glaze; The sigh that rises from my soul is one that iron dismays.

O Censor, do not bolt the tavern door in these last days; You tyrant, fear your God, whose door to mercy open stays.

Behold the ruin of a heart laid waste by sorrow’s maze; The very cure that builds the home is what will burn and raze.

From every flower, something sharp and playful now displays, Not dew. Whose dust is this? Of one whom beauty’s torment slays?

Do not lament, O Zauq, though your heart’s secret now displays; For every sigh becomes a key that opens secret ways.