The chorus states its paradox plainly: "Unki tareef mein kahein kya / Alfaaz hi nahi hain" — what can I say in their praise? There are no words. A song whose title celebrates language keeps reporting that language has failed, and that failure is the compliment.
When the words run out
The rest of the chorus commits fully: "Jo kuch mera hai sab kuch unka" — whatever is mine is all theirs — and "Unse zyada kasam se humko / Koi khaas hi nahi hai": beyond them, honestly, no one is special. The hyperbole is total but the tone stays soft; this is surrender, not drama. "Khayaal hai bara unka" — my thoughts are entirely of them — completes the transfer of ownership: belongings, standards, attention.
Slipped into love
Hamza Malik's opening verse admits the change went unnoticed: "Pata nahi chala, hum badal gaye" — I never realized we had changed — and "Karein ab kya ishq mein phisal gaye": what do we do now, we have slipped into love. The verb matters; falling in love here is an accident on a wet floor, something that happened to the body before the mind filed a report. He reminds us that before this person, "hum jaise toh dil lagane se dartay the" — people like us were afraid to give our hearts.
More beautiful than the stars
Zain Zohaib answers in Punjabi, widening the song's map. His imagery is rustic and direct: roses torn from gardens for her, a vigil that lasts "raat saari, charhdi saveer tak" — the whole night until early dawn — and the astronomical claim "Tu te taareyaan ton vi sohna ay": you are more beautiful than the stars. "Tere varga koi na hona ay" follows as the guarantee — there will never be anyone like you.
The duet structure does quiet work. Urdu verse, Punjabi verse, shared chorus: two regions, two registers of longing, one vocabulary of surrender. The love song becomes a conversation between dialects that agree.
Kissing the roads you walked
Zain's pre-chorus supplies the song's most devotional image: "Main te chum lawan, ohna raawan nu / Jithon ik vaari kaddi langheya tu" — I would kiss those roads, the ones you have passed along even once. Then the ultimatum of a man out of options: "Gallan do hi ne, hor koi vi nahi / Ya te tu hi ay, ya te koi vi nai" — there are only two possibilities, and no third: either it is you, or it is no one.
"Alfaaz" ultimately argues that love's peak experience is linguistically unpayable — the singers keep trying, in two languages, and keep reporting insolvency. That is why the chorus can repeat "alfaaz hi nahi hain" as a refrain: the bankruptcy itself becomes the song.
This is an original English interpretation of the supplied lyrics and the Genius translation pages, not an official explanation. Romanized lines are quoted briefly for commentary; full lyrics are not reproduced. Source: Genius.