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"the garden of rizvan that the ascetic praises so much,

for us self-less ones, it’s a single bouquet in the niche of forgetfulness.

how to describe the piercing power of her eyelashes?

all my blood drops are strung into coral prayer beads.

not even the murderer’s grandeur silenced my laments--

the straw that i took in my teeth became a reed flute.

i will show you a spectacle, if the times give me leisure--

every heart wound is the seed from which grows a tree of lights.

your glory made of the mirror chamber

what a sunray would make of a world of dew.

my construction includes one particular aspect of ruin.

the essence of the lightning that burns the harvest is the hot blood of the farmer.

weeds have sprung up all over my house -- just look at the desolation.

the doorkeeper now earns his living selling straw.

hidden in silence, turned to blood, are thousands of longings,

i am the burnt-out, tongueless lamp of a poor man’s grave.

there still remains a single ray of the image of the thought of the beloved,

the bleak heart is, so to speak, the empty cell of joseph’s prison.

tonight you sleep somewhere by the other’s side -- why else

would you come into my dream with hidden smiles?

no telling how many will have had their blood turned to water--

it’s a doomsday, when your eyelashes are wet with tears.

in our gaze is the path of the road of oblivion, ghalib,

for this is the binding string of the scattered pages of the world."

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-- ghalib , sufi mystic poet ,  ((1797-1869 c.e., bharata/present-day india)

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