Tell me something, O worshipper of nature! What beauty is there in these gardens?

After all, what beauty is there among this fruit, among these thorns?

What is new among the stars whether they burn all night through

Or whether they shine all night through? I, too, have often looked at them.

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t feel comfortable from the moon’s cool rays;

When I go about in the garden, I never am mad.

These silent buds of the narcissus—who knows what sort of flower

Blooms, laughs, and, pale yellow, is still called “sick.”

This red sunset, the poppy, the rose in which there is not even a single spark—

There is neither flame, nor warmth in your garden of flame.

Where were you at the time when the summer sun

Spreads the heat of hell in rivers and in the mountains?

The sharpness of that cold air in the horrible nights of winter—

Yes, that sharpness, that unkindness that are like swords.

The scene of the river storm—fine, you’ll be happy with it;

But a broken boat also whirls in the whirlpool.

You’ve heard the sweet song of the cuckoo, but do you ever think of this:

How many entangled songs lie in the broken strings of an instrument?

The thunder in the clouds, the flash in lightning, the swiftness of arrows in the rain;

I was shrinking, frozen, on the road; you were 

In the company of wine drinkers, a cup to your lips.

What is there in the beauties who are called “the comfort of life,” “pieces of the moon”?

Except for them, everyone is an enemy of understanding and knowledge. 

Why talk of Venus or stars in the Dipper;

The piece of bread I find lying about in the bazaar 

Is more beautiful than a thousand crescents.

When there is money in the pocket, when there’s bread in the stomach,

Then the grain of dust is a diamond, the dew is a pearl.

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          1937

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From:  Firozān̲ (Resplendent Things). ʻAlīgaṛh: Anjuman Taraqqī-yi Urdū (Hind), 1960. pp. 72 – 74