Ghalib's ghazal 33

Its pathways but puttees to the blistered poppy's marching band

Not a droplet of the parterre's Hawaiian wave hasn't sand

 Of Jamshed's grail's graven design, a luckless Prometheus lacking wine

Steals not fire but ire & Satire's self-contemning Plimsoll line

Tho' in the Silence its Songs sow the Rose shreds its skirt

Calling the nightingale cuckoo, still Scent & Color flirt

I'm not green but grown lean chasing not the dragon, but a tramp

Color & Scent distinguish to extinguish my smell of the lamp

Tho' a hundred times manumitted from the fetters of Love

How housel my heart that's foe to flight above?

Without heart's blood in the eye, Vision's wave is of dust
 So haunting its bouquet, Wine's bodega went bust

 A garden in bloom- thy heart's unrolling picnic rug's display

Spring's purple cloud is which Mind's Beaujolais?

See Prof. Fran Pritchett's Ghalib site for a scholarly treatment.

yak żarrah-e zamīñ nahīñ bekār bāġh kā

yāñ jādah bhī fatīlah hai lāle ke dāġh kā

be-mai kise hai t̤āqat-e āshob-e āgahī

kheñchā hai ʿajz-e ḥauṣalah ne ḳhat̤ ayāġh kā

bulbul ke kār-o-bār pah haiñ ḳhandah'hā-e gul

kahte haiñ jis ko ʿishq ḳhalal hai dimāġh kā

āzah nahīñ hai nashshah-e fikr-e suḳhan mujhe

tiryākī-e qadīm hūñ dūd-e chirāġh kā

sau bār band-e ʿishq se āzād ham huʾe

par kyā kareñ kih dil hī ʿadū hai farāġh kā
be-ḳhūn-e dil hai chashm meñ mauj-e nigah ġhubār
yih mai-kadah ḳharāb hai mai ke surāġh kā
bāġh-e shiguftah terā bisāt̤-e nashāt̤-e dil

abr-e bahār ḳhum-kadah kis ke dimāġh kā

not a single grain of the earth of the garden is useless) here even/also the path is the wick/bandage of the tulip's wound/brand

without wine, who has the strength for the tumult/terror of awareness?

weakness of enthusiasm/spirit/stomach has drawn the line on the cup

 at the doings of the Nightingale are the smiles of the rose
 what they call 'passion' is a defect of the mind)

 it's not fresh/new to me, the intoxication of the thought/idea/imagination of poetry

I'm a longtime opium-addict of the smoke of the lamp

 a hundred times, from the bondage of passion we became free
 but what can/would we do? for only/emphatically the heart is an enemy of freedom/disengagement
 without heart's blood, the wave of the gaze in the eye is dust
 this wine-house is ruined for [want of] a trace of wine

 your garden in bloom, a carpet/spread of the joy/fruitfulness of the heart

the spring raincloud, the {cask/distillery}-house of whose mind?