If from the bazaar, I brought a cup, and it shattered,
My earthen bowl against the sea's vast roar,
Then let it be.
Their gaze, the bloom it brings to my face,
They think it health, this glow upon the skin.
What tidings from the idol's silent guise?
A Brahmin whispers, "This year is kind."
Though we know heaven's truth, its veiled core,
To keep the heart content, O Ghalib, this thought is good.
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