Of game that killed its hunter? O my love,
I told thee, ‘Sia-Manto, do not go;
Let the wild bull go after his own love.
Dost thou need game, I am enough for thee.
Oh, do not, do not go!’ Yet who can tell?
Perchance ’twas Heaven that had ordained it thus.
The Will above cannot be changed below.
Rocky and bushy is Mount Ararat,
And cold and deadly are its winds and storms.
O Sia-Manto! show me now a way