In the heart of my hearts no lamps of hope glow; who cares?
The pearls of frustration deck my pillow; who cares?
The vultures of mayhem hover like the clouds ominous,
In this vast emptiness, treacheries flow; who cares?
Faint odours of cannibalism dance in the parks of Autumn,
Blood coagulates on the sheets of snow; who cares?
The twine of santoor is broken and scattered is my music,
Only the owl hoots and cornets of loss blow, who cares?
The poets desire to jot those ancient odes of jocularity again,
But only the volumes of elegies grow; who cares?