Although I do not see some lost paradise,

There is certainly a desire for some pleasure paradise or other.

True, I do not long for the long-lost happy times, 

But, to my eyes, there are certainly some other bedrooms.

.

I have been effaced, destroyed in the world, having lost everything; 

Why is it that I have no sense of loss? 

Some fresh, constructive madness is busy in action; 

My disturbed heart is not yet the target of despair.

.

I am also fresh-spirited, but then, why is there this demand again:

That some beautiful woman put her hand on my forehead. 

Is a beautiful lap the highest point of desire?

Is this what is to be gained: the effect of the lamentation of a sad heart?

.

What is the delightful smile of beautiful ones?

It is everything, granted. But why should it become soporific?

We acknowledge the magic of the beauty’s show place of coquetry;

Why then should this very spot become the sacrificial site of one who sees?

.

I had thought that my own destination was difficult; 

But even then, I had the support of beautiful, silvery arms. 

I eventually had to pass through the jungle of darkness

And even thought I’d find some bright, shining star.

.

Who didn’t want to turn fire into a garden? But how many

Abrahams have been burned, and yet the fire did not become a garden?

To break down the prison door was not difficult;

But Zulaikha herself never became the companion of the Moon of Canaan.

.

With this reward of fidelity, ah! With these requirements of life, O poet,

You should pass a life dedicated to the grief of those seated in the dust.

If there is no price for your heart’s blood, let it be so.

You should sacrifice your blood to add colour to the age.

        1950

.

From: Āhang (Melody; 1938). Dihlī: Āzād Kitāb Ghar. 1956. pp. 152 – 54