Na hui gar mere marne se tasalli na sahi

If my own death won't ease your heart of pain, so be it. If further trials for my love remain, so be it.

The thorn of longing’s sorrow is my gain; Let gardens of contentment bloom in vain, so be it.

Our lips the very wine-cask’s mouth will stain; If cup-bearers won’t fill our cups again, so be it.

The soul of Qais lights up the desert plain; Let Laila’s house in darkness still remain, so be it.

The life of this house rests on constant strain; A cry of sorrow, not a joyful strain, so be it.

I have no thirst for praise, no thought of gain; If these my verses no deep thoughts contain, so be it.

Count time with lovely friends your truest gain; If, Ghalib, a long life you can't obtain, so be it.