When the place of revelry became desolate,

The world began to seem confounded;

Flowers lay on the couch, crushed

Like droplets of blood on lips;

A heap of moths lay on the floor,

A spot of rather dirty colors;

When the candle’s flame turned paled

Like the reflection of death upon beauty.

The tall arches, cold and silent;

Life, an ascetic who wears a shroud on his shoulder;

When the candle began to go out slowly, 

My feelings shuddered to awakening.

.

Inside this very house of revelry,

Those very scenes will play again tomorrow.

Dancing to the tune of the sarod,

Love will pick flowers and smell them;

People will sing carefree songs,

They will mock death.

Arms, entangled in arms, will sway in ecstasy. 

Glances will kiss arrow-glances.

Long tresses will be scattered upon arms;

The secrets of false pride will be exposed;

Silk curtains will rustle; 

People will get tired and leave;

.

Differences are the foundation of the world—

It does not enjoy monotony.

While night yawns,

The sounds of day are heard.

As soon as some stem is broken,

A new leaf-shoot comes forth.

I have sacrificed body and soul for someone.

I have taken the burden of selfness off my heart;

Having lost everything, I have lost her too.

That is, she’s become someone else’s.

But feelings speak to me:

The waterfall goes on changing its path.

.

 1940

From:Intik̲h̲āb-i kalām aḥmad nadīm qāsimī, 1956. pp. 14 – 15