کہوں کيا آرزوئے بے دلي مجھ کو کہاں تک ہے

What should I say how much Longing for dejection I have? The elegance of my market is only up to the ardent desire for losing.

I am the sot who himself becomes garden by the Wine’s Light. Rose’s love is only up to the departure of the unkind cup bearer.

Hunter’s enhancement of garden’s beauty is till start of my melodies; as for the thunderbolts’ restlessness, it is up to my nest.

I am that handful of dust, which is changed to wilderness by distress’ grace. Do not ask me of my span; it is from the earth to the sky.

I am the bell, complaint is asleep in my whole nature; the silence of mine only is up to the caravan’s departure.

With a tranquil heart create means of attaining your aims, because the whirlpool’s knot is only up to the water’s flow.

Silence is death in the garden of Love, O nightingale this life is only up to observance of the wailing’s custom.

In youth, there is Sight’s zeal as well as Longing’s pleasure. The happiness of our house is only up to the guest’s presence.

Disgraced though I am in the whole world but, O ignorance; I understand that my Love is known only to my confidante.