It's been a long exile; we slowly languish,
Concealing gardens-souls beneath the rags
And throwing verses rhymed in every language
Into the whirl of uniforms and flags.
They fall without making any sound
Sustaining life despite a stranger's boot
In hope, one day, when us and them are found,
To be, perhaps to You of any good.
The stage is empty, sitting on the stairs,
I seem to hear Hamlet's monologue;
My taxi's driver tirelessly stares
Into the road enshrouded in fog.
I do confess: it's hard to be poetic
Without a credit history and score,
And in the mighty world of arithmetic
I am a ghost, and stranger therefore.
So let it be - the game is worth the candle,
The book is worth the weight of every page;
We only ask, o Allah, help us handle
The suffocation of the Final Age