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Against whose artful writing does the painting utter a plaintive cry?
The form of every picture wears a paper-attire.
Ask not about the diligence of my hard-heartedness in solitude,
To turn the Evening into Morning is to dig the Canal of Milk!
Cognizance may spread its net of hearing to any extent,
The Phoenix is the object of our Universe of Speech.
O Ghalib! Whereas even in captivity I have my feet on fire,
The ring of my chain is a hair that hath seen fire!
Did none other than Qais come to face the task ?
The desert was perhaps as narrow as the eyes of the envious!
Perturbation set the black mole of the heart right;
Thus it came to light that smoke was the wealth of the scar.
In the dream, Fancy had its dealing with thee;
When the eye opened, there was neither loss nor gain!
Still I am learning lessons in the school of the grief of the heart,
But it is only this: that went and was.
The shroud covered the scar of the defects of Nudity,
I was, otherwise, in every attire a disgrace to Existence!
Asad ! Farhad, the mountain-digger, could not die without an adze;
He was only intoxicated with customs and conventions. (en) |
