پھر کوئی آیا دلِ زار نہیں، کوئی نہیں
(No one came for this weary heart, no one at all…)
There was a time when she waited—her heart like a candle flickering in the wind, its flame fragile yet unyielding. Every quiet prayer whispered to the stars, every hopeful gaze cast into the night, was steeped in his name, as though uttering it would somehow bridge the distance between them. But now, the candle has burnt low, and the door to her heart, once left ajar with the illusion of waiting, is now quietly closed. It isn’t with anger or resentment, nor with a sense of betrayal, but with an acceptance so profound that it almost feels like peace. Love, she has learned, does not demand anything of the world. It simply exists—unseen, unheard, unreturned—and that is enough.
راہ-رو ہوگا کہیں اور چلا جائے گا
(The traveler must have found another path to walk…)
She was once the destination he sought, or so she had imagined. In the quiet spaces between their moments, she thought he would always find his way back to her. But the truth is more complex—he had his own journey, one that stretched beyond her reach, beyond the borders of her love. And so, in time, she has stopped looking back. The path he took is no longer hers to follow, and the footprints he left behind have slowly been erased by the winds of time. He has walked on, and so has she—no longer bound by the past, no longer chained by hope.
ڈھل چکی رات، بکھرنے لگا تاروں کا غبار
(The night has faded, the stars have begun to scatter…)
The darkness that once clung to her soul, a shadow so heavy that even the stars seemed dim in comparison, has finally begun to lift. It didn’t happen overnight—no, it took years, or maybe lifetimes, of silent suffering and quiet strength. The tears, once endless, have dried into something more gentle, more resilient. Her soul no longer quivers at the thought of him. The stars, once cruel and indifferent in their brilliance, now merely sparkle in the night sky, distant and calm, indifferent yet beautiful in their silent witness.
لڑکھڑانے لگے ایوانوں میں خوابیدہ چراغ
(In the grand halls, drowsy lamps begin to flicker…)
The passion she once held so fiercely has dimmed, like a flame that has burnt too brightly for too long. But it hasn’t vanished—no, it never truly does. Love, she has realized, isn’t meant to burn with a wild intensity forever. Sometimes, it can exist as a quiet glow, a soft light that still shines, but no longer burns. The grand halls of her heart, once filled with the fire of unrequited longing, now echo with a peaceful stillness. The lamps flicker, not with the frantic urgency of the past, but with the tranquility that comes with letting go.
سو گئی راستہ تک تک کے ہر اک رہگزار
(The pathways, tired of waiting, have fallen asleep…)
She used to wait, as if the universe itself were bound by the rules of her waiting. Every road, every corner, every shadow, held the possibility of him—his footsteps, his voice, his presence. But the paths she once paced with such hope have fallen silent. They no longer whisper his name, for she has stopped listening. The world keeps moving, as it always does, and so has she. There is no longer the ache of anticipation in her chest, no longer the promise of his return. She has learned that some roads are meant to be walked alone.
اجنبی خاک نے دھندلا دیے قدموں کے سراغ
(Strange dust has blurred the traces of his footsteps…)
Once, his presence lingered in the air, in the quiet spaces between breaths. His footsteps, soft yet insistent, left deep impressions on her heart. But the world has moved on, and with it, the memory of him has softened. The dust of time has blurred those once-sharp traces of his presence, and in their place is only the faintest impression—a memory that, while still present, no longer stings. The echo of his laughter, the warmth of his gaze, have faded into the background of her life, no longer a wound but a lesson—a lesson in love, in loss, and in letting go.
گُل کرو شمعیں، بڑھا دو مے و مینا و ایاغ
(Blow out the candles, pour the wine, raise the goblets high…)
She celebrates now, but not in the way she once did. Her joy is not the wild, reckless joy of someone clinging to hope. No, her joy is quiet, like a soft murmur in the wind. She has come to understand that life is fleeting, and there is beauty in embracing it fully, without waiting for someone else to validate it. The candles have been blown out, the wine poured, but the celebration is for herself, for the strength she has found in her own journey. It is hers, and hers alone, and that is enough.
اپنے بے خواب کواڑوں کو مقفل کر لو
(Lock the doors that have known no sleep…)
She has closed the doors to her heart, doors that once held the restless nights, the sleepless hours spent wondering if he would come. She has locked them not in bitterness, but in a knowing calm—a calm that comes from understanding that some doors are never meant to open again. The restless prayers, the unanswered calls, have all been locked away, not out of sorrow but out of wisdom. There is peace in closing doors, and there is strength in moving forward.
اب یہاں کوئی نہیں، کوئی نہیں آئے گا
(Now, there is no one here. No one will come…)
And that is perfectly fine. She has reached the point where she no longer needs anyone to fill the spaces of her life. She is enough. Her heart is no longer a place of waiting. It is a place of living, of loving herself and the world around her, without the need for anyone to validate her existence. She is complete, as she always was, in a way that is both quiet and profound. The waiting is over, and in its place, there is peace. There is love—not for him, not for anyone—but for herself. And that love, at last, is enough.
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