O Nightingale! The rose whose search made me flounced; by dint of good luck that rose I have finally found.

I used to flounce myself; I used to make others flounced. I used to feel shy when I found you singing beautifully.

A mere restless heart was not in my bosom, it was mercury. I was impatient for fulfillment of the Longing of Love.

My misfortune was famous in the assembly of the rose; my morning was the reflection of my dark night.

With my breath I have a blood stained knife in the bosom; under the cloak of silence I have Judgment Day's uproar.

Now that distress does not exist in my reflections' world; my reciting ghazals is no longer irksome to rose garden's assembly.

With the heat of Love my blisters became flames; now playing with thunderbolts are my wailings.

Ghazah-e-olfat sey yeh khak-e-seih aeinah hai; aur aeinay mein aks-e-humdam-e-deirinah hai. (Ghazah: Powder.)

By becoming a prisoner I gained my freedom; by ruining the heart I got prosperity for my house.

My star is shining with this sun's light, by whose path's dust the moon light is shy.

By a glance you taught me the rules of annihilation; how cool the day that has burnt away the motes from me.