In a little while,

the moon will be

robbed on every

rooftop;

 

mirrors will thirst

for vanished reflections.

 

One by one, the stars will

disintegrate—

 

exploding into

dust that will rain down

 

from heaven’s moist eyes.

 

Inside night-quarters

tired beyond hope

 

someone will gather his

loneliness, he will spread it

over;

 

at this faithless hour,

at this time of turning away—

 

when every man is only for

himself without memory

of another,

 

at this hour of severance,

at the end of our tryst

with the world:

 

wild heart, where will you go

at this hour?

 

No one will recognize you, let it go.

Who will you find now? Let it go.

 

And whoever you come across

by chance, you’ll regret seeing:

 

wild heart, where will you go

at this hour?

 

Stay a little longer—

 

wait until morning’s fleam

has roused every eye once more

              like a wound;

 

then all the helpless slain

at the end of the night—

 

forgetting the destitute hour,

the end of the night—

 

will insist on meeting,

on being called by name

translated from Urdu by Umair Kazi