At the deep night's end, in bright day's hour
as tender light kisses the earth's cheek,
twenty-first, in my city of consciousness
a mother's sari flies like a blood-flag in the wind.
When the streets tremble with many sounds of pain,
when hatred's chorus blooms like wild flowering;
restless hooves suddenly pull the red chariot
swiftly bearing Rafiq's blood-soaked corpse.
Breaking deep solitude, suddenly in consciousness a dense clanging
rings out; Rafiq's blood-soaked corpse
stands still before us; in oath's unbearable cry
the hungry one's jaw and morsel shatter to pieces.
In strange explosion, planets flung from the sun
bound to their axis, turn on time's wheel,
Rafiq's and Salam's rebellion, surging with oath,
just so derailed, racing on meteor's wings.
Who kindles that immortal light-fire in the dense soul?
Twenty-first is your name, friend—victory to you on the boundless journey.