It’s New Year’s celebration; streets are decorated,

The city glitters with light

The crowd is like a wave of the sea

Or a verdant field swaying.

Here, the beauties walk with such a charm

That one feels the pleasure of strong wine;

There, staggering in a drunken state,

Goes a band of tipplers.

To be sure, there is prohibition,

But is the police superintendent one’s God?

There, one sound echoes in the street:

“O drinkers, it is God who gives you drink!”

Every drain has become a hoarding place; 

Filth from drains used to make drink.

Everywhere there is a line of saqis;

This is an age of country-made wine;

Who is it that touches foreign liquor?

The custom of the earthen cup has become common;

The blood of martyrs is bringing results.

Today the disobedient are prospering;

Every man of honor has to bear whims of those disobedients;

Every shroud thief sings the praises

Of the statesmanship of the reformer;

Vagrants have abandoned the roads;

The police officer fights shy of them;

People say he is in league with them;

But who has the knowledge of the unknown?

Who is it who smiles alluringly, sitting this spectacle?

.

October 1956

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 211 – 12