Hard it is, for all tasks, to be easy.
For a man, too, it is not easy to be human.
What lamentation wills is ruin of my small house:
The doorjambs throb with wanting to be wilderness.
The madness of enthusiasm requires at every breath
That I go to it, as well as for my self to be confounded.
A veil taxes the gaze to want it dropped, as strongly
As scratches on a mirror will themselves to be eyelashes.
As at sight of the moon, a never satisfied band rejoices
On the killing ground for the sword to be drawn.
In the dust we laid the scars of vigor we longed for—Were you to be here, we would be gardens in bloom.
Joy for a botched heart is a feeling of laceration.
Like roasted liver, it relishes salt in its wounds.
On my slaughter, she swore off all violence,
As quick to shame as there was little to be sorry for.
It is an iniquitous lot for a hand’s breadth of cloth, Ghalib,
To be allotted as the rent collar on a lover’s robe.