I fear that this night of feeling might be extinguished.

The encircling storm of accidents, the raid of lust;

On the wayside, these explosions, these whirlwinds.

What will happen to the body, to the soul, to the truth of fidelity?

O string of my breath, what will happen to you? 

O plectrum of madness, what will happen to you? 

These burning cheeks, 

These fragrant lips,

This throbbing heart,

The colourful sandal mark on the forehead of life’s twilight,

What will happen to them?

It may not be that this colour on the forehead will disappear;

It may not be that this trace of fidelity will be effaced;

It may not be that this instrument, which is playing, falls silent.

Who at evening will light the candles on the streets?

There is no such a thing as compassion and generosity in the world.

There is no such thing as kindness and fidelity in the world.

There is no such thing as prostration and the imprint of the foot.

O my heart, throb more!

O flower-branch, become more fragrant!

.
1960

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From: Bisāt̤-i raqṣ (Dance Carpet). Ḥaidarābād, Inḍiyā: Istiqbāliyah kameṭī jashn-i Mak̲h̲dūm, 1966.pp. 196 – 98