Many a time my well-wishers opined that
I have a very bright future before me−
That is, through sinful earning,
Big post, money,
House in Park Circus;
Purse-proud daughter as pleasure companion.
But when hope belied them at a premature time, they said :
It's senility that made me good for nothing,
I peddle pieces of idealism on the foot-path.
I don not hesitate to compare Park Circus
With a quarter of the hell;
Because I see the pus of capitalism
Accumulated in dust-bins there
(Although dressed up in varieties of finery)!
Nevertheless irresistible urges come
From the nearby slum;
I search for the excellence in man
Among the lowly, the so-called `mean';
I combine my sighs with those of the hungry animals
And understand at every step
How difficult the road to idealism is.
I find innumerable Fera-un and karun
Array against me night and day;
I see helpless Boni Israils
At every corner of the street−
The same way search for Musa Kalimullah,
Entire street is shaking with pent up sighs,
The blood of the oppressed flows thereby.
This earth is all the same...
The strife-torn mind forgets struggle's disgrace
And rises everywhere for imminant all-engrossing zehad
Fearless soldiers for truth in search of Musa Kalimullah.
[Translated by Abdur Rashid Khan]
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Comments about this poem (Personal Explanation by Farrukh Ahmad )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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(12 May 1828 – 9 April 1882)
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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