Urdu Poetry of Mirza Ghalib

At every little thing you say, “Who art thou?”

Is this the way you talk to one, anyhow?

In flame not this miracle, in lightning not this art,

Tell me what’s behind her bold, impulsive glow?

This jealousy is there that he confers with you

Else, what fear of the enemy’s influence now?

With blood, my shirt sticks to the body,

What need of any darning does it allow?

Where the body’s burnt, the heart would’ve too.

Raking the ashes, what do you seek now?

We are not convinced of simply running in the veins,

What blood that which from the eyes did not flow?

That thing for which we esteem Eden so high,

What is it but wine of the flower, musk of blossoms, mellow?

When it comes to drinks I see through a few barrels,

Why then in glass, goblet, or pitchers wallow?

Gone’s the power of speech, and even if it

Stayed, on what hope would I, my hopes, show?

Become the king’s protégé, he struts about,

Else, what shall be Ghalib’s fame in this town?