Desire, in every hue, a rival of the head and wealth, it seemed,
A form unveiled, even within the canvas’s seam.
The wound gave no praise, for the heart's tight squeeze, O Lord,
Even the arrow, from the slain one’s breast, a feathering stream.
Desire, in every hue, a rival of the head and wealth, it seemed.
The fragrance of the rose, the sighing heart, the lamp's smoke in the hall,
Whoever left your gathering, dishevelled, it appeared.
Whoever left your gathering, dishevelled, it appeared.
In the heart, weeping raised a clamor, Ghalib, once more,
The sigh that would not fall as a tear, arose a hurricane, it appeared.
Desire, in every hue, a rival of the head and wealth, it seemed.
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