The devil, which prevents Me from naming and praising That which inflames my senses:

Wet ground covered with oak Leaves steaming in the sun, The constellation of women

Around whom a joyful chorus Of violins rises, also gules my voice To my mind and thus denies

Shouts of direct exultation. Instead I burrow in these powerless Forms, a refuge for the multiply

Exiled, man from country, voice From language, thought from The written word. Questions on

The wall: who am I? What do I want to say? And how to name it?

The mirror demands from me The former face of mine. And my own? They too demand Proofs that I exist.

I have been wandering At the outskirts of pain, As time was keeping account On my face of it’s passing, As the bottles of wine were Drinking up books of poems.

And now when I return The gesture of laughter Seems to have forgotten me. This city seems to have forgotten me As I had forgotten it.

I come to the marketplace again Where as before everything is on Sale: wombs, shoes, hearts, Clothes, lives, utensils, songs, Carriages, friendships, guitars. Of this changing spectacle There is no god. Everyday here, For cheap prices, gods are sold. I have seen every buyer Being sold here in this market.

What will I gain here, for what Did others ever gain here? So I am departing again From this mirror that is demanding From me, my former face.

Translation from an Urdu ghazal