I, the prisoner of the flames of my own voice,

I, the captive of my own chains;

Who in the world would understand how I received my wounds?

Who in this world would find pleasure in the suffering of souls?

Who is there to come and see the scene of my effacement?

Who has the time to see this world falling to pieces?

Who’ll be there to make this raging fire his own?

Anyone who comes will be consumed with me.

.

What was that moment when I had been given this banishment?

Not a single gust of wind came from my home;

Neither the fragrance of the rose, nor any wave of the breeze—

No one from the garden came to look for me.

I’m the diamond which was sold in the bazaars

And no one came from Yemen to inquire about me.

For some days the wall of my house must have surely wept

Remembering a lost Joseph;

For some days sorrow must have mantled the village lanes;

For some days, my night—blooming jasmine, weeping, could not blossom;

For some days, everything must have seemed desolate

And spring must have wandered restlessly in the mango grove.

For some days, my name, which I’d carved on a tree,

Must have remained fresh, wound—like;

Seeing it, all my friends must have said:

“Who knows where the poor wretch must be wandering about.”

Who remembers anyone for all times?

One by one everyone must have forgotten me.

.

Alas, what do they know of me, the wound—destined one,

Who had gone out as a traveller to learn of Life

And has been unable to find the Water of Immortality?

Even if he found any suns, they were dark;

Whatever little talent and quick intellect he’d brought from home

Stayed with him as the cause of his destruction.

.

My crime is that I possess perception and consciousness;

My defect is that I’m a poet and artist;

I’m so obstinate that I never bend my head;

I insist that I have the right to deserve to live;

I’m proud that I’m a trustee of truth and righteousness;

I have the presumption that I’m self-knowing, self-respecting.

On each turn of the road I met with mountains of adversity and pain;

At each step I’ve clashed against calamities;

I’ve drunk happily every kind of poison;

I’ve picked up and embraced each and every wound;

I’ve got enmeshed in the chain of each and every moment;

I’ve felt shy about myself with each and every breath.

Although it is not to be said—but I say it anyway—

The kind of love I’ve witnessed is only found in books;

Whenever I’ve extended my hand towards anyone,

I’ve seen the distance between us grow wider.

No one could give me even a drop of love’s wine,

Though I’ve squandered it by the taverns—full.

.

            1956

.

From: Nayā ʻahdnāmah (New Testament). ʻAlīgaṛh: ʻAlīgaṛh Buk Hāʼūs, 1965. pp. 89 – 92