"I wish you had made me the master of royals, Or made my crown the bowl for alms and betrayals. You should have made me mad, crazy only for you, Why did you make me wise, capable of denials? You made me poor, fit only for sifting through dust, And I wish the dust of her feet were my trials. If you made me intoxicated with love, Why did you make the measure of life small vials? A wretched heart torn a hundred times over lives, To be the shoulder to rest her hair is my desire. If I were not worthy to be with the Sufis, Could have been good for the company of drunks, defiant? If you wished to burn me by parting from the pourer, Should have made me the lamp of the tavern’s foyer. The fire of beauty was not unveiled in the garden, Or the bulbul too would have been made a moth on fire. This incessant world is a vile place, O Zafar, Its cities should have been desolate and dire."