O, this heartless darkness, these laments of the wind,

Who knows whether this night will have its dawn?

Let me cast a glance towards your window;

My drowning eyes may, or may not, have the power of sight again.

.

The lamps of your warm room still burn;

Their rays still sieve through the blue curtains;

In the circle of strange arms,

The mantle of your fragrant hair must still be swirling.

.

With the smoke of the flickering wick 

Heavy shadows approach with hands spread; 

Who will wipe my eyes’ burning tears? 

Who will unravel the knots of my tangled hair?

.

Ah, this cave of death, this prison of the lamp! 

My life passed in these dark houses; 

Life, the old fault of insensitive nature, 

Was a reality, but was spent on a few fables.

.

How many comforts kept laughing in the halls? 

How many doors always remained closed on my youth? 

How many hands wove silk and brocade, but 

Patches were always the fate of my dress.

.

In this slaughterhouse of men bearing oppression,

How long should one be consoled by the vision of tomorrow?

Living is the punishment for continually creeping all through life.

One could bear it, if it is the suffering of one or two days.

.

The same darkness still hangs everywhere;

No one knows when the show of people’s blood will end.

No one knows when the beauty of black-dressed space will brighten;

No one knows when the fate of oppressed humanity will change.

.

The lamps of your warm room are still lighted. 

Today I’ll descend into Death’s caves, 

And with the smoke of the dying wick 

Pass the frontiers of continuous Death.

.

From: Talk̲h̲iyān̲ (Bitternesses). Dihlī: Panjābī Pustak Bhanḍār, 1963. pp. 131 – 34