Yahan Saqi Nahin Payda, Wahan Be-Zauq Hai Sehba
I have seen many a wine‐shop East and West;
But here no Saki, there in the grape no glow.
Woh Banday Faqr Tha Jin Ka Halaak-e-Qaisar-o-Kasra
In Iran no more, in Tartary no more,
Those world‐renouncers who could overthrow
Galeem-e-Bu Zar (R.A.)-o-Dalaq-e-Awais (R.A)-o-Chadar-e-Zahra (R.A.)
Great kings; the Prophet’s heir filches and sells
The blankets of the Prophet’s kin.
Ye Banda Waqt Se Pehle Qayamat Kar Na De Barpa
When to The Lord I was denounced for crying Doomsday
Too soon, by that Archangel who must blow Its trumpet
‘Garaftah Cheeniyan Ahram-o-Makki Khufta Dar Batha’
(Ye Misra Haheem Sanai R.A. Ka Hai)
God made answer—Is Doomsday far
When Makkah sleeps while China worships?—
Magar Saqi Ke Hathon Mein Nahin Paymana’ay ‘ILLAH’
Though the bowl of faith finds none to pour, the beaker
Of modern thought brims with the wine of No.
Bohat Neeche Suron Mein Hai Abhi Yourap Ka Wavela
Subdued by the dexterous fiddler’s chords there murmurs
In the lowest string the wail of Europe’s woe—
Nehnangon Ke Nasheman Jis Se Hote Hain Teh-o-Bala
Her waters that have bred the shark now breed
The storm‐wave that will smash its den below!