Cobwebbed window; shadows on the balcony; spotted columns, bleakness on the ceiling.

Darkness, as if its arms flogging the air; some places dark, some with pale light.

Here, the blows of ages show on overturned slabs of marble floor;

Centuries’ headings appear on doors with mirror-like finishes in the shape of scratches;

Here, the scratches of the thrush’s claw passed like leaves on flowing water. 

.

Curtains in the windows, candles on the balcony, painted columns, light on the ceiling;

Frank mentions of her tresses, cheek, lips; clean laughter, like cotton puffs.

A dignified fragrance permeating the wrinkles of her dress, the atmosphere, the air;

This soft form tightly held in the arms, elasticity like a young shoot’s; deer’s litheness.

Here, pure wine is dancing in marble cups, like an incarnadine dawn.

There, the banner of some foreign country crowds the mirror-covered wall;

If only time could stop the old sun-chariot for only a moment,

If only this experienced priest, the sun, could challenge the path of revolution—

But to bolt about is in its fate; retreat is even a problem; to pause is hard.

This traveller will rest on Judgement Day; the Day of Creation was its city; eternity, its destination.

If the highways of Time—this evening, this night, this dawn—are predestined,

Then the foreigner’s banner will burn from the glowing heat of the spinning wheel.

.

 1946

From: Intik̲h̲āb-i kalām aḥmad nadīm qāsimī, 1956. pp. 35 – 36