I am madness in raptures borne on an airy steed,
A hue of beloved eyes coloring up in dance.
Why, what am I made for, I neither know nor gather;
Now a mood, now melody, a voice that just rings on.
I am a flame descending to the heart’s hidden cellars;
I am a jingling joy, a drunkenness in raptures.
In your veins a fire, I am a quivering flame,
A sparkling radiance, burning passion, yearning.
I don’t exist; I’m wind, heaving joy on joy;
With tears in my cheer and sad, smiling eyes.
Speak up, madman! what makes you weep with me?
I spring in a spirited step and reach your blood a-swing.
A mere illusive thought or an ever-unfolding grace;
A reckless airy steed rushing through reflections;
Or made of beat and jingle a prayer that is heard.
Translated from Pashto by Taimur Khan