He who kisses joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise

Love unsung or unspoken
Runs out of breath and dies

Lost the chance to win your love
Squandered all my seven tries

My heart is like a spoilt child
Knows not for what it cries

A rate race would be quite alright
Only if I knew what was the prize

(My attempt at creating the mizaz of ghazal in English, using William’s Blake’s first two lines as the starting point)

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