The darkness goes on surging

As if blood were oozing from night’s every vein;

.

The pulse of existence is moving

As if the drunkenness of the two worlds were wearing off.

Let night’s warm blood flow on;

.

This darkness is the rouge of dawn’s cheeks;

Morning is about to break. O restless heart, wait.

.

The chain still clatters behind the veil of the lute;

The Book of Causes [Job] still reigns supreme.

Tears roll down into the wine cup;

Still the drunken feet are constrained by custom.

.

Let your mad ones become truly mad;

Let your taverns become real taverns.

Soon this tyranny of Causes will be lifted;

.

This heaviness of custom will be finished

Though the chain may go on clanging, clanging. 

          

.

From: Dast-i ṣabā (Hand of the Wind). Dihlī: Senṭral Buk Ḍipo, 1952. pp. 13 – 14