I have once more returned to the same fertile valley 

In which are hidden the pleasure grounds of my dreams;

And, for the sake of my friends’ pleasures, 

There are wanton bosoms, young bodies, beautiful arms.

.

These maidens lurking in green fields—

How many are there whose blood runs in our veins!

Who dares to expose the secret?

On everyone’s lips hangs the magic of my fear.

.

O, those warm, attractive, swelling breasts 

Rewarded because of the pomp of our ancestors! 

No one knows how these half-dead peasants give birth 

To these marble bodies in these dingy hovels.

         .

These swaying plants, these shining fields

Were first the fiefs of my ancestors. Now they are mine.

These meadows, these herds, these cattle, these peasants, 

All mine, all mine, all mine.

.

Their labour is mine, also the product of their labour; 

Their hands are mine, also the strength of their hands; 

I am the god of this unlimited space; 

The wave of the cheek is mine; the smell of the tresses is mine.

.

I am the descendant of those ancestors who have 

Always supported the shadow of a foreign nation, 

Who have, from the dirty moment of the Mutiny until now, 

Served the government in every difficult time.

.

These withered skeletons creeping in the dust—

Their glances have never become, nor will they ever become, a sword;

Every hand can snap at their pride;

The bows of their brows have never stretched, nor will they ever stretch.

.

O, this evening, the waterfall, this rosiness of twilight! 

Let me roam a little in this contented space.

Who is that who goes softly there? 

Let me go to her and kiss the sculptured lips of that wanton beauty.

.

From: Talk̲h̲iyān̲ (Bitternesses). Dihlī: Panjābī Pustak Bhanḍār, 1963. pp. 158 – 61

Jāgīr is quoted in full in Urdu Poetry, 1935-1970