She need not have one anxious doubt of me,
She need not fear my further wanderings—­
    How can I flee? 
How can a bird escape, deprived of wings?

FIGHAN.

XIX.

How difficult is the thorny way of strife
That man hath stumbled in since time began,
And in the tangled business of this life
How difficult to play the part of man.

When She decrees there should exist no more
My humble cottage, through its broken walls,
And cruelly drifting in the open door,
The frozen rain of desolation falls.

O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burn
And bear my Soul further and further yet
To the Beloved; then, why dost thou turn
To bitter disappointment and regret?

Such light there gleams from the Beloved’s face
That every eye becomes her worshipper,
And every mirror, looking on her grace,
Desires to be the frame enclosing her.

Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,
In this grim place of slaughter strange indeed
Your joy to see unveiled her haughty glance
That flashes like the scimitar of Ede.

When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,
Pardon she asked for killing me.  Alas,
How soon repentance followed on my death,
How quick her unavailing sorrow was!

Ghalib.

XX.

I grant you will not utterly forget,
I hold you not unheeding and unjust,
    But ere you hear my prayer
I shall be dead and turned to senseless dust.

How little can one eager sigh attain
To touch thine icy heart to tenderness! 
    Who can live long enough
To win the beauty of thy curling tress?

Ghalib.

XXI.

The high ambition of the drop of rain
Is to be merged in the unfettered sea;
My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain,
Changing, became itself the remedy.

Behold how great is my humility! 
Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore;
Now I no longer feel thy tyranny
I hunger for the pain that then I bore.

Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflow
If not to breathe with benediction sweet
Across her path?  Why did the soft wind blow
If not to kiss the ground before her feet?

Ghalib.

XXII.

I had a thousand desires, for each of them I would have died,
    And what did I gain? 
So many indeed are fulfilled, but how many beside
    Insatiate remain!

We have known of the tale of how Adam to exile was driven;
    More shameful in truth
Is my fate to be cast from the garden more favoured than Heaven
    Where she walks in her youth.

That living and dying in love are but one I have proved,
    This only know I
That I live by the sight of the beauty of her the Beloved
    For whom I would die.