he apni to jaise-taise thodi aise yaa vaise
apni to jaise-taise thodi aise ya vaise kat jaaegi
aapka kya hogaa janaab-e-aali aapka kyaa hoga
apne aage na pichhe na koi upar-niche
apne aage na pichhe na koi upar-niche rone vala
naa koi rone vali janaab-e-aali aapka kya hoga

aap bhi meri tarah insaan ki aulaad hai
aap munh maangi dua ham anasuni fariyaad hai
aap bhi meri tarah insaan ki aulaad hai
aap munh maangi dua ham anasuni fariyaad hai
vo jinhe saaraa zamaanaa samajhe laavaaris yahaan
aap jaise zaalimo ke zulm ki ijaad hai
aap jaise zaalimo ke zulm ki ijaad hai
gaali huzur ki to lagati duaao jaisi
gaali huzur ki to lagati duaao jaisi
ham dua bhi de to lage hai gaali
aapka kya hogaa janaab-e-aali aapka kyaa hoga

aapke maathe se chhalake jo pasinaa bhi kahi
aasamaan hilane lage aur kaanp utthe ye zami
aapka to ye pasina khun se bhi qimati
aur apne khun ki qimat yaha kuchh bhi nahi
apna to khun paani jina-marana bemaani
apna to khun paani jina-marana bemaani
vaqt ki har adaa hai apani dekhi-bhaali
aapka kya hogaa janaab-e-aali aapka kyaa hoga
apni to jaise-taise thodi aise yaa vaise
apni to jaise-taise thodi aise ya vaise kat jaaegi
aapka kya hogaa janaab-e-aali aapka kyaa hoga
apne aage na pichhe na koi upar-niche
apne aage na pichhe na koi upar-niche rone vala
naa koi rone vali janaab-e-aali aapka kya hoga

We, somehow, some way, a little this or that,
we'll scrape along, survive, though barely that.
But you, O noble sir, your fate, what will be?

No past, no future, no one above or beneath,
no mourner to weep, no solace to breathe.
No one to weep for us, O noble sir, your fate, what will be?

You too, are born of the seed of humankind,
You, the answered prayer, we, a plea left behind.
You too, are born of the seed of humankind,
You, the answered prayer, we, a plea left behind.
We, the orphaned ones, by the world disowned,
are forged by the cruelty of those like you, we're all you've designed.
We're forged by the cruelty of those like you, we're all you've designed.
Your curses, sir, feel like blessings bestowed,
but our prayers ring hollow, like curses we're owed.
Your fate, what will be, O noble sir, what will be?

From your brow, a bead of sweat may fall,
and the heavens tremble, the earth enthrall.
Your sweat, more precious than any crimson tide,
while ours, our blood, is worthless, cast aside.
Our blood is water, living and dying a jest,
our blood is water, living and dying a jest,
Time's every gesture, we know it well, have to abide.
Your fate, what will be, O noble sir, what will be?
We, somehow, some way, a little this or that,
we'll scrape along, survive, though barely that.
But you, O noble sir, your fate, what will be?
No past, no future, no one above or beneath,
no mourner to weep, no solace to breathe.
No one to weep for us, O noble sir, your fate, what will be?