The moon appears behind evening twilight

Spreading a sheet of light on the earth;

The trees and their fruit turn silver;

The moon makes every beautiful thing more beautiful.

Listen, a new life calls to me;

The moon hums something in low tones;

My glance goes and joins that of the beloved;

The moon is bringing together madness and beauty;

In my eyes wanders someone’s distinct face;

The moon makes me weep, and it smiles at itself;

The tale I was trying to forget by deceiving myself—

The moon is telling the same sweet tale [of love].

The wealth I had kept hidden from the eyes of time—

The moon squanders the same wealth of love’s sorrow;

In the cloud islands flying in the sky

The moon is calling earth’s sorrow to ascend.

Who is this poor man with a pang rising in his breast?

Palaces tremble; the moon shudders.

The night is sad; poverty and slavery;

The moon lifts its head from a shroud to terrify us.

Where’s the rose-cheeked saqi? Where’s the red wine?

The moon is telling the tale of earth’s sorrow.

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From: Bisāt̤-i raqṣ (Dance Carpet). Ḥaidarābād, Inḍiyā: Istiqbāliyah kameṭī jashn-i Mak̲h̲dūm, 1966. pp. 78 – 80