Whosoever comes now in my history's uniform
I shall ask him his profession,
I shall ask him what fruits grow in our land,
I shall ask him,
which songs ripen our crops and the heat of whose blood blares high notes;
whosoever makes a slave of my words
I shall peel off my skin for him,
I shall cast all my words on the wind and shall fix my eyes on the high minarets of the city.
— I Shall Ask by Asghar Nadeem Syed
