[...]
Car spark lighting,
how can I bear the hauteur of those carriages
bypassing,
In the time of similitude, this,
this is the abundance from the houses of proper
gentry,
this is an illusion, a mischief, perhaps a moments of
innocence,
but on the road I walk, my fate unturned, sorrowful,
electricity's sharp dash iluminating carriages
the amiable modulation of conversation
this recognition hangs, waiting for my comprehension
[...] were I like him an officer
my house would be at a remove from the town's dirt,
the town's dusty streets would be far away, and I,
I'd have you,
but I'm merely a munshi, and you:
you're the queen of wealth, a purveyor of fame
and this,
this merely the story of my desire,
more seasoned than the earth.