Won't you stop taunting me by asking who I am,

Tell me, if you can, what's wrong with you?

I wonder how the liquid called blood is vital for life,

If it cannot shed itself as tears from my aggrieved eyes!

My blood-soaked garment has now become my shroud,

There's no way the torn parts can be patched up now.

When my body was ablaze, the heart too was not spared,

So, what are you seeking by stirring the ash now?

The power of speech has left me and not a word can be uttered,

How can speech come from a heart which died for love?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

One of Mirza Ghalib's popular ghazals. Translated on June 24-25, 2002. Modified later.

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