This grave of the people’s daughter, by the king’s side,

Speaks of how many lost stories?

It raises the veil from how many bloody truths,

And tells of how many crushed souls?

.

How, for the consolation of proud kings, 

Bazaars of beauties were held for years. 

How, for the pleasure of lost glances,

Young bodies were heaped in red palaces.

.

How, from every branch, closed fragrant buds 

Were plucked to decorate the harem, 

And they could not become free, even after withering, 

For the sake of keeping the pretence of love for the Shadow of God. 

.

How a small movement of a person’s lip

Could extinguish the lamps of untainted fidelity

And snatch away the bridely state of shining hands 

And break the glasses overflowing with Love’s wine!

.

This desolate tomb in frightened spaces

Is silent, as if it laments.

In the cool branches the winds shrieks

As if the spirit of sanctity and fidelity mourn.

.

You, my darling! Do not look at me amazed and with grief.

None of us are Nur Jahan or Jahangir;

You can leave and spurn me;

My hands, not chains, are in your hands.

.

From: Talk̲h̲iyān̲ (Bitternesses). Dihlī: Panjābī Pustak Bhanḍār, 1963. pp. 147 – 49

Nūr jahān̲ ke mazār par is quoted in full in Urdu Poetry, 1935-1970