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Let the ascetics sing of the garden of Paradise
Let the ascetics sing of the garden of Paradise -- We who dwell in the true ecstasy can forget their vase-tamed bouquet.
In our hall of mirrors, the map of the one Face appears As the sun's splendor would spangle a world made of dew.
Hidden in this image is also its end, As peasants' lives harbor revolt and unthreshed corn sparks with fire.
Hidden in my silence are a thousand abandoned longings: My words the darkened oil lamp on a stranger's unspeaking grave.
Ghalib, the road of change is before you always: The only line stitching this world's scattered parts.
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