The dreams are farther than the horizon of imagination’s beauty,

Dreams which an innocent sentiment of the heart had seen; 

And in the burning deserts of interpretations 

Thirst walks on blistered feet, the iridescent mirage holds a flame in its hand.

.

Is it not possible that one might find a day of childhood

Or that a rare moment of youth might return;

The sunbeam of some sad smile might burst forth,

Or a rose might glow in some amputated hand?

Ah, are these the traces of memories or lines on stone?

Who can write the book of one’s past years?

In the sleeping torrents of past moments

Float the broken bubbles of eyes,

The shine of twilight’s colour, the fire on the sun’s face.

.

Dawn comes smearing her face with friends’ blood; 

No one knows on which turn, on which street, what has passed.

Who can count the wounds of desire?

How long will tears summon the sleeve [for wiping them away]?

Now the blood whirlpools catch hold of the garment’s hem;

Silence stares at each and every face;

Of what is the mode of address ashamed?

Questions vainly knock at each and every door

And answers escape from them like criminals.

O rebellion, I summon you again today,

I, your wandering, bold, miserable poet;

Throw again the lasso of restless passion on the world!

Yet another dream, O my hardship-seeking courage.

.

From: Ek k̲h̲vāb aur (One More Dream), 1965. pp. 17 – 18

Ek k̲h̲vāb aur is quoted in full in Urdu Poetry, 1935-1970