But this is a heart, not brick or stone! why would it not fill with pain?
We will cry a thousand times anyway; why would anyone torment us?

There is no temple here, no shrine, no door, nor a door-sill either;
we are sitting in the midst of the road, why would another make us stand up?

With her heart-inflaming beauty, with her face like the sun at noon,
if she melts hearts just by being herself, why would she then veil her face?

The dagger-like glance is a thief of life, the dart of allure not to be dodged –
the mirror-image of your own face, how could it stand in front of you?

The prison of life and the fetter of grief are essentially one and the same;
before his death, how could a man ever find release from grief?

Beauty, and beautiful thinking too – no shame to a lustful man;
being confident about herself, why would she put to test another?

On that side, pride in greatness and allure; on this, bashful self-respect –
how could we ever meet in the streets, why would she invite us to a feast?

Yeah, she is ungodly; I dare say she ist faithless!
Having one’s heart or faith at heart, why would one go up her street?

Unless Ghālib goes to pieces, what labour of love will end?
Why cry bitter, bitter tears? why send up sigh after sigh?

(Mirza Ghalib)