Over the high hills of the eastern settlements, 

Sometimes in mango groves, sometimes in field hedges,

Sometimes in lake waters, sometimes in the narrow lanes of the town,

Sometimes in the joyful half-naked kids, 

At dawn, dusk, in the darkness of the night, 

Sometimes at a fair, among itinerant players in their tents, 

Sometimes lost on desolate roads in pursuit of butterflies, 

Sometimes in the hidden resting places of little birds,

Barefooted on burning sand, in frozen winds,

Skipping from the neighbourhoods, from schools, in shrines,

Sometimes among girls of the same age, cheerful, with heart lost to them,

Sometimes twisting like a whirlwind, sometimes like bloodshot eyes,

Swimming in the wind, flying like clouds in a dream, 

Hidden in branches like birds, swinging, turning,

I see a boy of a wandering nature, free, roving,

A boy, like running water of a swift stream. 

It seems as if this devil

Is my double; at every step, every turn 

I find him running beside me like a shadow;

He follows me as I am a fugitive, a criminal;

He asks me, “Are you Akhtarul Iman?”

.

I also acknowledge the blessings of God, the Exalted, the Glorified,

I admit that He has spread the universe in such a way

That it is like bedding of brocade, silk and velvet;

I admit that this shadow of the tent of heaven

Is His gift; He had decorated space

With sun, moon and stars, established each in its orbit;

He cleaved the rocks and called forth rivers;

From lowly clay He created me,

He gave me the guardianship of the world;

He filled the sea with pearls and coral, mines with diamonds and gems,

Wind with intoxicating smells;

That commander is absolute Lord, the One, the All-Wise.

He separates light from darkness; if I recognize myself 

It is His kindness and generosity;

It is He who has given sovereignty to the ignoble and adversity to me;

It is He who has made idle talkers my custodians;

He had made triflers rich and me a beggar;

But whenever I have stretched my hand before anyone,

This boy asks me, “Are you Akhtarul Iman?”

.

The means of subsistence are in the hands of others.

I have nothing except my talent, but, nevertheless,

Till the end of life’s tumult, I have to carry a burden;

Till the disintegration of the elements and the drowning of the pulse,

I have to sing something or other 

Whether it is the melody of the dawn, or the lament of the night.

For the sake of earning a livelihood, 

I sometimes have to smile before the victor 

Calling my song theirs; that labouring of the pen resulting in sleepless nights,

I have to show it to everyone, like a counterfeit coin.

Whenever I think about myself, I say: 

“You are a blister which has ultimately to burst.”

In short, I wander like the dawn breeze, but

Whenever I hold the robe of night in the desire for dawn,

This boy asks, “Are you Akhtarul Iman?”

.

When this boy asks me, I answer, annoyed:

“That distracted, defected and restless one 

You are always asking, the wretch, had died long ago.

I wrapped him in the shroud of deceit with my own hand?

And threw him in the grave of his own desires.”

I tell that boy, “That flame has died out which

Once wished that it would burn all the rubbish of this world.”

This boy smiles and says, “This is lying, falsehood!

It’s a lie. Look! I am alive.”

December 1954

.

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 205 – 208