Don't keep digging up and asking about your complaints. Keep away from my heart, for fire is suppressed within it.

Ah, my friend, Ghalib starts by asking, "Please, don't keep digging up my old *shikwe*—my complaints, my grievances." But then comes the profound warning: "Beware of my heart (*hazar karo*), for a fire is suppressed within it." This isn't mere anger; it's the immense heat of all he's endured—loss, betrayal, a life of crushing sorrow. Imagine a dormant volcano, serene on the surface, yet magma churns beneath. To endlessly poke at these old wounds isn't just stirring memories. It risks unleashing an overwhelming explosion of that pent-up suffering. Ghalib, who knew unimaginable pain, kept such an inferno hidden. Sometimes, the deepest peace lies not in speaking of our wounds, but in guarding the powerful truths they have forged within us.