here i am, grown tired repeating the tale of the sorrows of love
and yet, people say that nothing do i say
at the drop of a hat, couplets of Ghalib do they spout
in the face of that genius, what possibly could i say?
the tongue had not even stirred, and she got up and walked away
you tell me, the state of my heart to whom could i say?
she asked for patience, and what that means, i know not
if my life had been demanded, 'yes' would i say
i had gone to her door with a litany of complaints and grouses
but when my lips were sealed with a kiss, what could i say?
often, i tell tales of the pain and sorrow of life
if that pain were not there, what would i say?
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