I see the young, I see the old,
I see their every face.
I see the world in sands of time,
With oceans in the race.
We will have no more than a life to own,
We will reap, sure, what we have sown;
There will be years of despondence,
They can be good by a happy tone.
Why walk with soul so dead?
Why move as to pretend?
Why eat with such a dread?
Why drink with easing bend?
Ah! Islamic republic of Pakistan! Isn't it so?
By the facts n' figures and truth n' lies it is not.
The cheery land, once deserved by them;
We do not merit this. Oh! What a shame?
O' What a throbbing attitude,
For my delicious solitude.
For on the grass yet greenly still,
And in the gardens of the hill.