Your heart can never be equal to mine in feeling and loyalty.

That one can’t be glass and this one can’t be stone—our natures are different.

Dagh Dehlvi contrasts two hearts by calling one “glass” (fragile, sensitive) and the other “stone” (hard, unfeeling). The speaker says emotional parity is impossible because their inner temperaments are fundamentally unlike. Beneath the comparison is hurt pride and a complaint of coldness from the beloved. The metaphor sharpens the sense of mismatch in love.

Your heart can never be equal to mine in feeling and loyalty.

That one can’t be glass and this one can’t be stone—our natures are different.

Dagh Dehlvi contrasts two hearts by calling one “glass” (fragile, sensitive) and the other “stone” (hard, unfeeling). The speaker says emotional parity is impossible because their inner temperaments are fundamentally unlike. Beneath the comparison is hurt pride and a complaint of coldness from the beloved. The metaphor sharpens the sense of mismatch in love.

In love, there are countless little things that feel delightful, Dagh.

Those who do nothing at all achieve the real feat.

The couplet plays with a witty paradox: love seems full of enjoyable “tasks,” yet the greatest mastery is to do nothing—just to remain absorbed, patient, and present. “Doing nothing” hints at letting love act on its own, without forcing outcomes. The emotional core is playful admiration for quiet devotion and effortless surrender.

In love, there are countless little things that feel delightful, Dagh.

Those who do nothing at all achieve the real feat.

The couplet plays with a witty paradox: love seems full of enjoyable “tasks,” yet the greatest mastery is to do nothing—just to remain absorbed, patient, and present. “Doing nothing” hints at letting love act on its own, without forcing outcomes. The emotional core is playful admiration for quiet devotion and effortless surrender.

You used to say: I will be faithful, I will stand by it, I will listen to you.

Do you still remember whose words those were?

The couplet recalls a lover’s old assurances—faithfulness, constancy, and obedience—and then turns them into a pointed question. By asking “whose words were these,” the speaker highlights the gap between promises and present behavior. The tone carries reproach mixed with sorrow, using memory as evidence against forgetfulness and betrayal.

You used to say: I will be faithful, I will stand by it, I will listen to you.

Do you still remember whose words those were?

The couplet recalls a lover’s old assurances—faithfulness, constancy, and obedience—and then turns them into a pointed question. By asking “whose words were these,” the speaker highlights the gap between promises and present behavior. The tone carries reproach mixed with sorrow, using memory as evidence against forgetfulness and betrayal.

You reduce to dust the very person who meets you with true heart.

Someone who truly loves me is found only with great difficulty.

The speaker complains about cruel ingratitude: the sincere friend/lover who comes from the heart is the one being humiliated and destroyed. “Dust” suggests disgrace, ruin, or being cast down. The second line stresses how rare such genuine love is, so harming it is an even greater folly. The emotional core is grief mixed with protest at not valuing devotion.

You reduce to dust the very person who meets you with true heart.

Someone who truly loves me is found only with great difficulty.

The speaker complains about cruel ingratitude: the sincere friend/lover who comes from the heart is the one being humiliated and destroyed. “Dust” suggests disgrace, ruin, or being cast down. The second line stresses how rare such genuine love is, so harming it is an even greater folly. The emotional core is grief mixed with protest at not valuing devotion.

O Dagh, tell your friends that this is not a child’s game.

The command of the Urdu tongue comes only after much time and effort.

Dagh Dehlvi stresses that writing or speaking refined Urdu is a serious art, not something to be taken lightly. The phrase “aati hai… aate aate” suggests slow, hard-won attainment through practice and lived experience. Beneath the boast is a warning and a humble truth: real eloquence takes patience, discipline, and maturity.

O Dagh, tell your friends that this is not a child’s game.

The command of the Urdu tongue comes only after much time and effort.

Dagh Dehlvi stresses that writing or speaking refined Urdu is a serious art, not something to be taken lightly. The phrase “aati hai… aate aate” suggests slow, hard-won attainment through practice and lived experience. Beneath the boast is a warning and a humble truth: real eloquence takes patience, discipline, and maturity.

Dagh says: we truly know what is called “Urdu,” and we claim it with confidence.

Across Hindustan, our language is celebrated and widely acclaimed.

The couplet is an assertion of linguistic pride and ownership: the poet presents himself (and his circle) as true connoisseurs of Urdu. “Dhoom” signals public resonance—Urdu’s sweetness and expressive power have created a stir throughout the land. The emotional core is self-assured celebration of a language as a marker of identity and cultural presence.

Dagh says: we truly know what is called “Urdu,” and we claim it with confidence.

Across Hindustan, our language is celebrated and widely acclaimed.

The couplet is an assertion of linguistic pride and ownership: the poet presents himself (and his circle) as true connoisseurs of Urdu. “Dhoom” signals public resonance—Urdu’s sweetness and expressive power have created a stir throughout the land. The emotional core is self-assured celebration of a language as a marker of identity and cultural presence.

Everyone is looking in the same direction where the beloved is.

I am not watching the beloved; I am watching the watchers’ eyes.

The couplet contrasts common attention with the speaker’s sharper, second-level observation. While the crowd stares at the beloved, the lover reads the crowd’s gaze—measuring desire, envy, and fascination. It hints at possessiveness and a quiet rivalry: the beloved is one, but the eyes upon them are many. The emotional core is alert, slightly jealous, and intensely self-aware.

Everyone is looking in the same direction where the beloved is.

I am not watching the beloved; I am watching the watchers’ eyes.

The couplet contrasts common attention with the speaker’s sharper, second-level observation. While the crowd stares at the beloved, the lover reads the crowd’s gaze—measuring desire, envy, and fascination. It hints at possessiveness and a quiet rivalry: the beloved is one, but the eyes upon them are many. The emotional core is alert, slightly jealous, and intensely self-aware.

I long to see you openly, without any veil or concealment.

If you feel shy, then just cover your own eyes with your hands.

The couplet is flirtatious and teasing: the lover insists on the joy of seeing the beloved unveiled, turning modesty into a playful excuse rather than a barrier. By suggesting the beloved cover her eyes, he implies the shame lies in the act of looking, not in being seen. The emotional core is bold desire wrapped in wit, where intimacy is negotiated through banter.

I long to see you openly, without any veil or concealment.

If you feel shy, then just cover your own eyes with your hands.

The couplet is flirtatious and teasing: the lover insists on the joy of seeing the beloved unveiled, turning modesty into a playful excuse rather than a barrier. By suggesting the beloved cover her eyes, he implies the shame lies in the act of looking, not in being seen. The emotional core is bold desire wrapped in wit, where intimacy is negotiated through banter.

If You are to grant me a heart, then grant one with this kind of temperament.

One that can pass even an hour of sorrow with a feeling of joy.

Dagh Dehlvi turns the request to God into a prayer for inner disposition rather than outward comfort. The “heart” stands for one’s emotional nature, and “temperament” for the ability to interpret hardship. The core feeling is a longing for resilience—such a steady, grateful spirit that even pain can be endured with cheer. It suggests true happiness is an inner state, not a change of circumstances.

If You are to grant me a heart, then grant one with this kind of temperament.

One that can pass even an hour of sorrow with a feeling of joy.

Dagh Dehlvi turns the request to God into a prayer for inner disposition rather than outward comfort. The “heart” stands for one’s emotional nature, and “temperament” for the ability to interpret hardship. The core feeling is a longing for resilience—such a steady, grateful spirit that even pain can be endured with cheer. It suggests true happiness is an inner state, not a change of circumstances.

The ones who dress up look in the mirror and say this.

Today, those who wish for my death will die an untimely death themselves.

The speaker hears admirers/beautifiers praising themselves in the mirror, and turns that scene into a sharp boast. He implies his charm and presence are so overpowering that even his rivals’ ill-wishing rebounds on them. “Dying without death” is a metaphor for being consumed by envy and frustration. The couplet’s emotional core is proud, taunting irony.

The ones who dress up look in the mirror and say this.

Today, those who wish for my death will die an untimely death themselves.

The speaker hears admirers/beautifiers praising themselves in the mirror, and turns that scene into a sharp boast. He implies his charm and presence are so overpowering that even his rivals’ ill-wishing rebounds on them. “Dying without death” is a metaphor for being consumed by envy and frustration. The couplet’s emotional core is proud, taunting irony.

What a fine kind of veiling it is: they sit pressed right up against the curtain.

They neither hide completely, nor do they come openly into view.

Dagh Dehlvi paints the beloved’s teasing modesty: the curtain becomes a metaphor for a carefully maintained distance. By sitting at the curtain, the beloved stays tantalizingly near—visible enough to stir desire, yet not present enough to satisfy it. The lover is kept suspended between hope and denial, and that in-between state is the very ‘art’ of the veil.

What a fine kind of veiling it is: they sit pressed right up against the curtain.

They neither hide completely, nor do they come openly into view.

Dagh Dehlvi paints the beloved’s teasing modesty: the curtain becomes a metaphor for a carefully maintained distance. By sitting at the curtain, the beloved stays tantalizingly near—visible enough to stir desire, yet not present enough to satisfy it. The lover is kept suspended between hope and denial, and that in-between state is the very ‘art’ of the veil.

It is the night of meeting—extinguish these lamps.

In a gathering of happiness, those who keep burning have no place.

The speaker asks for the lamps to be put out because the night of union needs no artificial light—intimacy prefers darkness. “Burning ones” are the lovers who suffer in longing; their inner fire clashes with the mood of celebration. The couplet carries a sharp irony: joy makes the grief-stricken feel unnecessary and pushed aside.

It is the night of meeting—extinguish these lamps.

In a gathering of happiness, those who keep burning have no place.

The speaker asks for the lamps to be put out because the night of union needs no artificial light—intimacy prefers darkness. “Burning ones” are the lovers who suffer in longing; their inner fire clashes with the mood of celebration. The couplet carries a sharp irony: joy makes the grief-stricken feel unnecessary and pushed aside.

There is no remedy for this constant “no.”

Every day you say, “not today.”

Dagh Dehlvi captures the lover’s helplessness before a beloved who keeps refusing by postponing. The repeated “no” becomes like an incurable disease: nothing can change it. “Not today” sounds gentle, yet in practice it is a daily denial. The emotional core is longing that is kept alive through endless delay.

There is no remedy for this constant “no.”

Every day you say, “not today.”

Dagh Dehlvi captures the lover’s helplessness before a beloved who keeps refusing by postponing. The repeated “no” becomes like an incurable disease: nothing can change it. “Not today” sounds gentle, yet in practice it is a daily denial. The emotional core is longing that is kept alive through endless delay.

O ascetic, you will find what you seek through love.

God is not found merely through formal worship and obedience.

Dagh Dehlvi contrasts two paths: dry, rule-bound piety and the burning sincerity of عشق (love). Addressing the “zahid” (self-righteous ascetic), the poet suggests that real nearness to the Divine comes from an inward, passionate devotion rather than outward rituals alone. The emotional core is a gentle but sharp irony: the one who boasts of عبادت may still miss God, while the lover reaches Him through the heart.

O ascetic, you will find what you seek through love.

God is not found merely through formal worship and obedience.

Dagh Dehlvi contrasts two paths: dry, rule-bound piety and the burning sincerity of عشق (love). Addressing the “zahid” (self-righteous ascetic), the poet suggests that real nearness to the Divine comes from an inward, passionate devotion rather than outward rituals alone. The emotional core is a gentle but sharp irony: the one who boasts of عبادت may still miss God, while the lover reaches Him through the heart.

I did something unbelievable: I trusted your promise.

All night long, I waited as if awaiting Doomsday.

The speaker rebukes himself for believing the beloved’s word, treating that trust as a shocking mistake. The “night-long wait” becomes so intense and crushing that it feels like waiting for the end of the world. “Qayamat” is a metaphor for unbearable anxiety and emotional devastation, showing how a broken promise turns time into torment.

I did something unbelievable: I trusted your promise.

All night long, I waited as if awaiting Doomsday.

The speaker rebukes himself for believing the beloved’s word, treating that trust as a shocking mistake. The “night-long wait” becomes so intense and crushing that it feels like waiting for the end of the world. “Qayamat” is a metaphor for unbearable anxiety and emotional devastation, showing how a broken promise turns time into torment.

When she heard the news of my death, she spoke to my rivals.

She said: God forgive him—there were many fine qualities in the one who died.

The couplet turns grief into sharp irony: the beloved, who didn’t value the lover in life, offers praise only after his death—and that too before his rivals. Her words sound like a formal condolence, yet they sting because the appreciation comes too late. The emotional core is the lover’s bitter sense that recognition is easiest when it costs nothing.

When she heard the news of my death, she spoke to my rivals.

She said: God forgive him—there were many fine qualities in the one who died.

The couplet turns grief into sharp irony: the beloved, who didn’t value the lover in life, offers praise only after his death—and that too before his rivals. Her words sound like a formal condolence, yet they sting because the appreciation comes too late. The emotional core is the lover’s bitter sense that recognition is easiest when it costs nothing.

They cling to me tightly out of fear of lightning.

O God, let these rainclouds pour for two more days.

The speaker uses the storm as an excuse for closeness: the beloved hugs him to feel safe from lightning. He then turns to a playful prayer, asking the clouds to keep raining so the pretext for embrace lasts longer. The cloud and lightning become metaphors for fear and opportunity, while the real emotion is longing for union.

They cling to me tightly out of fear of lightning.

O God, let these rainclouds pour for two more days.

The speaker uses the storm as an excuse for closeness: the beloved hugs him to feel safe from lightning. He then turns to a playful prayer, asking the clouds to keep raining so the pretext for embrace lasts longer. The cloud and lightning become metaphors for fear and opportunity, while the real emotion is longing for union.

I didn’t realize that someone can leave this world (die) at any moment.

You came too late, my kind one—by the time you arrived, it was already late.

The couplet is a lament spoken at the edge of separation: life is fragile, and departure can happen without warning. The “kind one” (beloved or dear person) arrives after the crucial moment has passed, turning affection into pain. The emotional core is regret—both for not foreseeing mortality and for the delayed care that cannot undo loss.

I didn’t realize that someone can leave this world (die) at any moment.

You came too late, my kind one—by the time you arrived, it was already late.

The couplet is a lament spoken at the edge of separation: life is fragile, and departure can happen without warning. The “kind one” (beloved or dear person) arrives after the crucial moment has passed, turning affection into pain. The emotional core is regret—both for not foreseeing mortality and for the delayed care that cannot undo loss.

Even if a heaven contains houris for countless ages,

what would anyone do with such a heaven?

The poet (Dagh Dehlvi) dismisses the usual picture of paradise—eternal pleasures and houris—as meaningless. The question is rhetorical: if the beloved (or true fulfillment) is absent, even heaven has no value. The couplet turns religious reward into a metaphor for shallow desire, asserting that love’s craving outweighs promised bliss.

Even if a heaven contains houris for countless ages,

what would anyone do with such a heaven?

The poet (Dagh Dehlvi) dismisses the usual picture of paradise—eternal pleasures and houris—as meaningless. The question is rhetorical: if the beloved (or true fulfillment) is absent, even heaven has no value. The couplet turns religious reward into a metaphor for shallow desire, asserting that love’s craving outweighs promised bliss.

Till yesterday you were close and familiar, but today you act like a stranger.

If your temper changes in just two days, who knows what will happen next.

Dagh Dehlvi voices the hurt of a relationship that flips suddenly from intimacy to cold distance. The beloved’s swift change of attitude becomes a metaphor for unreliable affection and unstable human moods. The final phrase “what will happen ahead” carries both sarcasm and real anxiety about a future that now feels unsafe. The emotional core is shock, wounded pride, and apprehension.

Till yesterday you were close and familiar, but today you act like a stranger.

If your temper changes in just two days, who knows what will happen next.

Dagh Dehlvi voices the hurt of a relationship that flips suddenly from intimacy to cold distance. The beloved’s swift change of attitude becomes a metaphor for unreliable affection and unstable human moods. The final phrase “what will happen ahead” carries both sarcasm and real anxiety about a future that now feels unsafe. The emotional core is shock, wounded pride, and apprehension.

How can anyone trust what you say now?

Who would keep waiting for you every single day?

The speaker questions the beloved’s credibility because promises have repeatedly failed. “Trust” and “daily waiting” become symbols of a relationship worn down by inconsistency. The tone is weary and slightly accusing: affection remains, but faith has been exhausted. The couplet captures how repeated delays turn hope into doubt.

How can anyone trust what you say now?

Who would keep waiting for you every single day?

The speaker questions the beloved’s credibility because promises have repeatedly failed. “Trust” and “daily waiting” become symbols of a relationship worn down by inconsistency. The tone is weary and slightly accusing: affection remains, but faith has been exhausted. The couplet captures how repeated delays turn hope into doubt.

He places a lamp in front of his bright face and says this.

“Let’s see whether you go to that light or come here like a moth.”

The beloved stages a playful test: the lamp is a rival light set beside the radiance of the face. The moth stands for the lover, drawn helplessly toward beauty and flame-like danger. Beneath the flirtation is possessiveness—wanting proof that the lover’s pull is toward the beloved, not any other attraction. The couplet captures teasing, temptation, and the lover’s fated surrender.

He places a lamp in front of his bright face and says this.

“Let’s see whether you go to that light or come here like a moth.”

The beloved stages a playful test: the lamp is a rival light set beside the radiance of the face. The moth stands for the lover, drawn helplessly toward beauty and flame-like danger. Beneath the flirtation is possessiveness—wanting proof that the lover’s pull is toward the beloved, not any other attraction. The couplet captures teasing, temptation, and the lover’s fated surrender.

If they place a hand gently and ask how my anxious heart is doing,

Even if I do feel calm, I will still say: I have no peace.

The beloved’s touch and concern can momentarily soothe the speaker, yet love’s habit is to remain unsatisfied. The poet suggests that the lover clings to restlessness as proof of depth of feeling, refusing to admit comfort. “No peace” becomes both a complaint and a way to keep the intensity of love alive.

If they place a hand gently and ask how my anxious heart is doing,

Even if I do feel calm, I will still say: I have no peace.

The beloved’s touch and concern can momentarily soothe the speaker, yet love’s habit is to remain unsatisfied. The poet suggests that the lover clings to restlessness as proof of depth of feeling, refusing to admit comfort. “No peace” becomes both a complaint and a way to keep the intensity of love alive.

It would be great fun if, on the Day of Judgment, I were to present my complaints.

And the beloved, pleadingly, would say: please be quiet, for God’s sake.

Dagh Dehlvi imagines the ultimate courtroom—Judgment Day—as a stage for lovers’ grievances. The thrill lies in the irony that even there, where truth should be spoken, the beloved tries to hush the lover with humble entreaties. “For God’s sake” carries both social politeness and a sacred weight, turning suppression into a tender, teasing intimacy. The couplet blends complaint with playful affection and moral pressure.

It would be great fun if, on the Day of Judgment, I were to present my complaints.

And the beloved, pleadingly, would say: please be quiet, for God’s sake.

Dagh Dehlvi imagines the ultimate courtroom—Judgment Day—as a stage for lovers’ grievances. The thrill lies in the irony that even there, where truth should be spoken, the beloved tries to hush the lover with humble entreaties. “For God’s sake” carries both social politeness and a sacred weight, turning suppression into a tender, teasing intimacy. The couplet blends complaint with playful affection and moral pressure.

Last night, on the night of union, the muezzin called the adhan.

Alas—what ill luck: at that very moment he happened to remember God.

Dagh Dehlvi turns a sacred act into a worldly interruption through sharp irony. The lover’s long-awaited intimate meeting is broken by the adhan, and he curses the caller’s “piety” because it arrives at the worst possible time for him. The emotional core is jealousy and frustration: devotion feels like misfortune when it disrupts desire. The couplet highlights the clash between passion and religious routine.

Last night, on the night of union, the muezzin called the adhan.

Alas—what ill luck: at that very moment he happened to remember God.

Dagh Dehlvi turns a sacred act into a worldly interruption through sharp irony. The lover’s long-awaited intimate meeting is broken by the adhan, and he curses the caller’s “piety” because it arrives at the worst possible time for him. The emotional core is jealousy and frustration: devotion feels like misfortune when it disrupts desire. The couplet highlights the clash between passion and religious routine.

Your leaving in anger has taken my life away.

Coming like that was worse than not coming at all.

The speaker says the beloved’s sulking departure feels like a mortal blow, as if it has carried away his very life. The pain is not just separation, but the manner of it—coldness and resentment turning a meeting into a wound. The couplet contrasts presence-with-hurt against absence, claiming that a bitter visit leaves deeper damage than no visit. Emotionally, it is a complaint of love injured by pride and harsh farewell.

Your leaving in anger has taken my life away.

Coming like that was worse than not coming at all.

The speaker says the beloved’s sulking departure feels like a mortal blow, as if it has carried away his very life. The pain is not just separation, but the manner of it—coldness and resentment turning a meeting into a wound. The couplet contrasts presence-with-hurt against absence, claiming that a bitter visit leaves deeper damage than no visit. Emotionally, it is a complaint of love injured by pride and harsh farewell.

You didn’t even know how to speak properly.

This is something plainly visible to me, right in front of my eyes.

Dagh Dehlvi’s couplet is a cutting taunt: the speaker reminds the other person of their past inability to even hold a conversation. Now that the person appears confident or argumentative, the speaker counters with an undeniable “I have seen it myself” claim. The emotional core is reproach mixed with irony—exposing false pride by pointing to obvious, witnessed reality.

You didn’t even know how to speak properly.

This is something plainly visible to me, right in front of my eyes.

Dagh Dehlvi’s couplet is a cutting taunt: the speaker reminds the other person of their past inability to even hold a conversation. Now that the person appears confident or argumentative, the speaker counters with an undeniable “I have seen it myself” claim. The emotional core is reproach mixed with irony—exposing false pride by pointing to obvious, witnessed reality.