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,
A vagabond!
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.