Yes, O poor little girl; you beg;

Having said something, your questioning glance lowered.

You, who are filled with modesty and shyness, beg

And tremble from head to foot.

There is a wetness in your eyes; your forehead is like a mirror;

You do not seem accustomed to begging.

There is no mirror or comb in the fate of your hairlocks;

Perhaps the time is dark in your eyes.

Thus, your delicate body is in old clothes,

Like a withered, ruined flower in a garden,

.

Satan’s glance may drop before you,

But Man’s glance is eating you up.

Sita has an affection for your chastity;

Because of your innocence, Mary may embrace you.

If houris could find your feet, they would rush to kiss them;

Angels may prostrate themselves before you at your every footstep.

.

O, I wish someone whose kingdom is this world would tell me: 

Is this a narcissus-like eye, or a begging bowl?

The lips are set pieces of stone;

The cheeks, flickering lamps on the road.

.
          1937

.

From:  Firozān̲ (Resplendent Things). ʻAlīgaṛh: Anjuman Taraqqī-yi Urdū (Hind), 1960. pp. 77 – 78