hādsavo jo abhīparda-e-aflākmeñhai
aks us kā mire ā.īna-e-idrākmeñhai
Events as yet folded in the scroll of Time
Reflect in the mirror of my perception.
na sitāremeñhai ne gardish-e-aflākmeñhai
terītaqdīr mire nāla-e-bebākmeñhai
Neither the planets, nor the spinning skies –
Only my bold song – can tell you your destiny.
yāmirī aah meñhīkoīshararzindanahīñ
yāzarānamabhītereḳhas-o-ḳhāshākmeñhai
Either my sighs are devoid of fire,
Or else your straw and thorns as yet retain some sap;
kyāajabmerīnavā-hā-e-sahar-gāhī se
zindahojaa.evoātish jo tirīḳhaakmeñhai
Yet perchance my morning song
May quicken the fire that your dust contains –
toḌDālegīyahīḳhaaktilsim-e-shab-o-roz
garcheuljhīhuītaqdīrkepechākmeñhai
The dust that will break the spell of the passing time one day,
Though it is entangled in the skein of Fate as yet.