Produce a magnificence of fire, lightning, and clouds;

Produce that youth which would even make Death afraid;

In your gait is hidden the secret of earthquakes;

At each pace, produce a revolution.

The echo of the workers’ axe is your song;

Make fife and drum from stone and brick.

O friend, the sword’s kiss is very sweet;

This is the soul of the world; make it shine.

A gathering of stars may be seen in your steps;

Produce that dare-deviltry, that unique youth;

Your youth is entrusted to you by the entire world;

Produce roses in this world full of thorns.

Comfort is a dream of helpless old age;

Do not look at the soiled chastity of pious people;

Produce a nature of chastity in sin itself.

In your company, create a new Paradise, a new Hell,

New rewards, strange tortures.

All have made wine from the blood of the poor;

Make wine now from the blood of the rich;

Destroy the castle of civilisation, for it’s a sham;

Do away with the tradition of love; create torture;

If possible, trample us to go forward;

If impossible, at least produce ones to match us;

If my blood flows on the earth, don’t be sad;

From this very earth, create sweet-smelling roses. 

Do not wait for the revolution to come; 

If possible, produce revolution right now. 

              1937

 

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From:  Āhang (Melody; 1938). Dihlī: Āzād Kitāb Ghar. 1956. pp. 78 – 80

Naujavān se is quoted in full in Urdu Poetry, 1935-1970