Astrologers' City Poem by Hanzala Han

I am a huckster of saffron ink in the astrologers' city. Coming to know my identity, those who are omniscient advice me, "You've to sharpen your teeth and claws if you want to survive in this city."
I am not carnivorous in my cryptic knowledge; let me see how much the tabor players can gather a mob at a bazaar; engraving tattoos of peepul and fig trees, some devour death-hook like fishes. Like aerial queens they bet their lives with shadow puppets. In the city of magic barren birds become caged sibyls. A master astrologer makes bubbles in his mouth, "You've to run more. If your ink runs out, astrology will be practiced in your blood. Posterity will know of you from history far in future."
Going to look for a way out to flee, mistakenly I enter a sanatorium of the dead.