As long as there remains the scent of faith in the hearts of our Ghazis, so long shall the sword of Hindustan flash before the throne of London. - Bahadur Shah Zafar

غازیوں میں بُو رہے گی جب تلک ایمان کی
تخت لندن تک چلے گی تیغ ہندوستان کی

My heart has no repose in this despoiled land
Who has ever felt fulfilled in this futile world?
The nightingale complains about neither the sentinel nor the hunter
Fate had decreed imprisonment during the harvest of spring
Tell these longings to go dwell elsewhere
What space is there for them in this besmirched heart?
Sitting on a branch of flowers, the nightingale rejoices
It has strewn thorns in the garden of my heart
I asked for a long life, I received four days
Two passed in desire, two in waiting.
The days of life are over, evening has fallen
I shall sleep, legs outstretched, in my tomb
How unfortunate is Zafar! For his burial
Not even two yards of land were to be had, in the land of his beloved.

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.