(17)
Written in Europe

At London, winter wind, like sword, was biting though, My wont to rise at early morn I didn’t forego.

At times my heated talk to gathering pleasure lent; My holding ’loof at times perplexed them all, I trow.

No hope for change is there, if workers rule the land, For those who hew the rocks, like Parvez tricks do know.

Statecraft divorced from Faith to reign of terror leads, Though it be a monarch’s rule or Commoners’ Show.

The streets of Rome remind of Delhi’s glorious past, The lesson same and charm are writ upon its brow.