روز خوں ہوتے ہیں دو چار ترے کوچے میں

every day, some in your street are slain

my love, a furor now infests your lane

with bloodied hearts your street is littered now

your street can never have the garden's glow

as ardent martyrs, in your street arrive

death's marketplace begins to hum and thrive

I'll speak no more, as someone does repeat

as if his own, my verses, in your street

no comfort in your street I ever found

save torture nothing else was all around

To go to death's abode resolved, in vain,

but wayward wishes led me to your lane

at my rival's home you preen and prance

whilst in your lane I yearn for just a glance

my love of freedom will ever remain

my soul in heaven, body in your lane

of my address such ignorance you feign

tis in your lane, O tyrant, in your lane

what matters if just Sheftaa stays away?

as several come, dwell in your lane each day