kya gharaz laakh khudaai mein hon daulat waale

What use are all the treasures that the men of fortune claim? My soul is sworn to serve the ones who live in passion’s name.

If lovers sought a cure for wounds that mark them with despair, The healers would sell salt and gems, and trade upon their pain.

If those who bear love’s burning fire to paradise ascend, The pious souls who dwell there would find only burning shame.

O Saqi, those you have entranced, who shun the morning wine, Will sleep right through the Judgement Day, still drunk on passion’s flame.

Your lovers do not flirt with the famed daughter of the vine; That harlot’s touch is only feared by men who guard their name.

Like grains of sand in hourglasses that never can combine, Two hearts that harbor bitterness remain apart, in shame.

Your lips are said to grant new life, a cure for every plight, Yet those who bear your love’s affliction have no life to claim.

The feet of greed will stretch to fill whatever space they find, While men of great abundance feel constrained by their own fame.

My longing for a single glance, a sigh too deep to write— The scribes must break their letters just to represent its name.

No mourner watches at my tomb, no guardian but a light; No pilgrims come to visit, save the moths drawn to the flame.

I ask for neither cruelty, nor kindness you might show; Behold the quiet patience that my steadfast heart can claim.

How strange it is that famous men, like slivers of new moon, Believe their own significance is rooted in their shame.

I speak my words of sorrow to my heart, which speaks to me; We both exist in misery, and suffer just the same.

If you arrived, O medicine for all my loving pains, The cruel ones who now disgrace me would cry out my name.

Like firework-makers’ lighting reeds, all pens are thrown aside By scribes who try to document my heart’s consuming flame.

Sometimes regret will visit me, sometimes the tears arrive; My ailing heart has only these two callers to its shame.

You seem oblivious to me, O master of disdain, But your neglect is practiced art, not born of idle shame.

What visions I have seen in her, my lips can never tell, For fear the men of rigid law would hear, and speak my blame.

The rose is proud of its own grace, O Zauq, within the garden’s wall; It has not seen the one who truly owns that graceful name.