Life is one; the earth one; humanity one.

One is the ocean of thought, the storm of passions;

The same sun, same moon, same stars,

The same rose-tinted shores of the blue sky;

Time’s flight from East to West is one;

When the heart throbs in the breast, it is the same sound;

Hir is sad in the fields of the Punjab, Juliet weeps in the stories of England;

We bestowed on love the taste of sight;

We chiselled the word “heart” from the flame of the cheeks;

Whether it is the garden of East or West, there is the same breeze;

Whether it is cold or warm, in any case, it is the same space.

O soil of Europe, do not meet the Asian with restraint;

Heart is my gift and heart is your gift;

What has robbed us, has oppressed us,

Is not the West, but its Capitalism;

And capitalism is neither Indian nor British;

Capitalism is the cheapness of my blood and yours;

It is your murderer as well as mine;

It is both the effort of life and the outcome of that effort;

The Thames [1] and the Seine [2] have a restlessness like the Jumna;

In the wave of the Danube [3] has a sleeplessness like Ganges’;

There is not such a difference between the two gardens.

In your woods also there are deer, frightened;

The streams of the West are like the forms of the East;

The blue range of mountains is like the Himalayas;

The same vagabond wind sings in the jungles;

Sound comes off some traveler who has lost his way;

Buds open for the tresses adorning themselves;

Butterflies fly for the scattered scent;

Fairies of the season frolic in the wind;

Weather changes and garments change with it;

Boats are joyous on the sea-roads;

Your shores remain young with the sailor;

Your arches also are culture stretching its limbs;

In your embrace are Delhi and Shanghai;

There is a trace of magic in the motions of days;

Here too life is in the spell of morning and evening;

At night the lotuses are lit; in the morning, the lamps go out.

In bedchambers smile the bowls of youth;

At dawn doors open like the beloved’s arms;

Wayfarers meet on the road with glances;

Windows hide day-scenes within the eyes

At night they lower their eyelashes;

Milk runs also in the bosom of the West

And like that of India and Iran, the child becomes a youth.

The streets run and join the schools;

The children, like flowers, blossom in the grass;

Here to every eye is the audience of the world; 

Every glance is desirous of a pleasure of seeing; 

In your songs too is the beautiful melody of the heart; 

The mood of the soul is in the magic of colors; 

Blessed be the artisans of Paris and London; 

Blessed be the sculptors of Rome and Greece;

In your bazaars are Josephs as well as Zulaikhas; 

In your desolate places Majnuns as well as Lailas; 

There is the force of poverty and the excess of wealth; 

Here there is robbing as well as the renting of clothes;

Here there is the word of truth as well as the rope and the gibbet; 

The pleasure of longing and also the courage of deeds;

Sometimes when we isolate ourselves from reality

We are somewhat lost in the spells of externals;

We drink the poison of hatred and haughtiness

And thereby divide humankind.

The tresses of the beloveds of my country are black;

And the clouds of your sweethearts are golden;

The eyes of your sprightly beauties are blue

And the lakes of my mirror-faced ones are those of mascara;

The cut of your garment is a little different;

The shape of my collar and hem are different;

The reality of flower-scent does not depend on the vases;

The wine does not change with different cups;

There is the same flower-scent, the same fragrance of fidelity;

The manner of your dear ones and mine is the same.

      Paris  ∙ December 1954

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From:  Ek k̲h̲vāb aur (One More Dream), 1963. pp. 39 – 43