—Brush, instrument, fresh flowers, dancing feet.

There are many pretexts to express oneself;

But with whom should man talk? 

When there is no excuse for meeting, 

And access, always short-reaching, 

Is not the ultimate object of talk?

.

—A particle of the hand of dust

Sometimes like a gamboling spark,

Happy with the prick of some unknown desire,

Helpless because of the burning furnace-flame in its breast

—A particle, always separated from itself,

Suddenly becomes the deception of voice, and irradiates, 

Sometime becomes 

The junction of light, color, line and arch, 

Sometimes becomes the lord of meaning!

.

—The lord not caught in the bondage of time

From the brightness of this one particle 

Start swirling blue, month-year whirlpools 

In the hands and feet of some sleepy dancer. 

From the astonishment of this one particle

Some potter’s dream turns to poetry; 

From this one, deathless particle the paltry brick finds lasting life, 

And roofs and doors, the nightless dawn!

.

—But to whom should a man talk?

Brush, instrument, fresh flowers, dancing feet. 

Man is left thinking:

When, why, how shall I lift such a heavy burden? 

Why, then, should I talk?

.

With Munibar Rahman

.

From: Lā = insān. (X = Man). Lāhaur: Munīr Niyāzī, 1969. pp. 86 – 88