|By dint of Spring the poppy-cup, with vintage red is over-flown:|
With her advent the hermit too temperance to the wind hath thrown.
|When great and mighty force of Love at some place its flag doth raise,|
Beggars dressed in rags and sack become heirs true to King Parvez.
|Antique the stars and old the dome in which they roam about and move:|
I long for new and virgin soil where my mettle I may prove.
|The stir and roar of Judgement Day hath no dread for me at all:|
Thine roving glance doth work on me like the Last Day’s Trumpet Call.
|Snatch not from me the blessing great of sighs heaved at early morn:|
With a casual loving look weaken not thine fierce scorn.
|My sad and broken heart disdains the Spring and dower that she brings:|
Too joyous the song of nightingale! I feel more gloomy when it sings.
|Unwise are those who tell and preach Accord with times and the age.|
If the world befits you not, a war against it you must wage.
Translated by: Syed Akbar Ali Shah