On the street of Memory where much time has passed

You—walking in a way

That the street would end if you walked a few more steps,

Where there is a bend toward the plain of Forgetfulness,

Beyond which I am no one, nor are you anyone.

My glances are holding their breath

Not knowing when you might return, or pass by, or look back.

.

Though my glances know that all this is deception—

That somewhere my eyes would embrace you again—

Another street will burst forth there,

And there, again, the journey of the shade of your tresses

And the movement of your arms will always appear before me.

.

This is a lie too because the heart knows

That today there is no bend, nor plain, nor snare

Behind whose veil my moving moon could sink.

It is better this street keeps moving forward because of you.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t turn and look at me.

.

    Montgomery Jail  ∙  30 March 1953

               

.

From: Zindān̲ nāmah (Prison Narrative). Dihlī: Kabīr Buk Ḍipo. 1955. pp. 137 – 39