I praise you, Capitalist system, that you are making 

So many preparations for your own destruction by your own hands!

Tempests, flames in the rain of blood; 

The smell of fire and gunpowder in every word; 

How pleasing that mothers’ laps are empty today;

Again the crown of thorns set upon the world’s head;

Death is absorbed in happiness; life is drowned in mourning; 

All creation is being ravaged; the universe is on fire;

The earth from which the prophets of evolution arose, 

The earth from which sprang the gods of knowledge and wisdom, 

The earth of Rama and Lakshman, the earth of Gautama, 

The earth of Muhammad and of the son of Mary,

 In every intoxicated roof and door of this earth is death. 

Death is in earth’s heart, in its glance; 

Death in temples, shrines, churches; 

Death in solitude, in royal bedrooms; 

The dance of Capital, of profit and loss, 

May the determination for freedom survive! May life live forever! 

May the red banner rise still higher; long live insurrection!

In every street and lane there is the dance of sudden death;

No longer any song in the breast of the happy soul; 

No longer does life bustle anywhere; 

Never were the curly tresses seen so dishevelled; 

There was confusion before, but not like now. 

Drink, and drink with your own hand in the name of Capital;

From the overflowing glass of death, O slave of the present age!

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From: Bisāt̤-i raqṣ (Dance Carpet). Ḥaidarābād, Inḍiyā: Istiqbāliyah kameṭī jashn-i Mak̲h̲dūm, 1966. pp. 87 – 89