Authentic, attributed verse from the masters of Urdu poetry — carefully sourced and verified from trusted literary archives.
Every leaf, every plant knows the state of my heart — the flower may be unaware, but the whole garden knows.
All remedies proved contrary, medicine did nothing at all — this illness of the heart, in the end, completed its fatal work.
It was my friends who made me mad — otherwise, I too was someone who could tell one person from another.
Thousands of desires — each one worth dying for. Many longings met their end, yet they still felt too few.
O foolish heart, what has come over you — after all, what is the cure for this pain?
There are other fine poets in this world too — but they say Ghalib's way of expression is something altogether different.
Urdu is what it is called, and we are the ones who truly know it, O Dagh — throughout the entire world, our language resounds.
The veil slowly slips from that face — the burning wound of longing slowly, slowly surfaces.
To weep in silence, night and day — that time is remembered. That era of love — we remember it still.
When do tears not come to these eyes? — When they don't come, it is blood that flows instead.
What is life? The emergence of order among the elements — What is death? The dispersal of those very same parts.