The rose, the ruby, all their bloom, a whisper,
Lost within the dust, a shadowed tomb.
What forms, once vibrant, now in slumber deep,
Concealed, returned to earth, where secrets sleep.
If grief should bleed a soul to crimson hue,
That sorrow, then, a fleeting thing, subdued.
So many trials, burdens I have borne,
Until the weight, by grace, was gently torn.
If Ghalib weeps, a river unrestrained,
Then watch these cities, where no life remained,
And see the empty echoes of the past,
Where joy has fled, and desolation cast.
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