hai duaa kismat rahe tujh par hamesha mahaban
bewfa kismat ho to uth jay sar se aasman

ye kismat hai kya jante hai wahi jamane me hai
jinki kismat buri
ye kismat hai kya kisne dekha yaha apni kismat
banata hai khud aadmi

jitne unche ho insaan ke housle
utne unche utne unche mahal uske kadmo tale
jinki mehant ke dam se mahal hai khade
unko rahne ko milte hai kyo jhopde
unki mehnat mai ye akl shamil na thi
apni kismat banata hai khud aadmi
ye kismat hai kya jante hai wahi jamane me hai
jinki kismat buri

laakh mehnat se sinche koi gulsita baag me gul
khila na sake baagba
uski mehnat men hogi kahi kuchh kami warna
kya hai jo kar na sake aadmi
aadmi khud ko insaa bana na saka apni kismat
baanayega kya aadmi
ye kismat hai kya jante hai wahi jamane me hai
jinki kismat buri

aaj ka aadmi chand ko chu saka fir bhi dharti
ko khushhal na kar saka
yaha mehnat se sholo pe bhi gul khile buri
kismat se barsaat me ghar jale
ye takraar sadiyo se yu hi chali magar ho sake na
kabhi faisle ye sach hai ki mehnat se sab kuch mile
magar jab ye kismat yaha saath de na mehnat hai
choti na kismat badi hai dono ke dam pe ye duniya
khadi
ye kismat hai kya jante hai wahi jamane me hai
jinki kismat buri
ye kismat hai kya kisne dekha yaha apni kismat
banata hai khud aadmi

May blessings grace your path, a constant grace,
But should unkind fate descend, the heavens fall from space.
What is this fate, they know, the ones who truly see,
Whose fortune's touch is harsh, perpetually.
What is this fate? Who here has seen their own?
Man himself, his destiny has sown.

As high as soaring hopes within the soul reside,
As high, as grand, the castles at his feet abide.
Those who built the towers, by their striving hand,
Why do they dwell in huts, across the land?
Their labor lacked, a vital, knowing part,
Man himself, his destiny, a work of art.
What is this fate, they know, the ones who truly see,
Whose fortune's touch is harsh, eternally.

Though a garden blooms, a thousand blooms it bears,
Yet the gardener can't make the rose unfold its flares.
In his labor lies some fault, a hidden flaw,
For what is there that man himself cannot draw?
Man, unable to perfect his own form and grace,
Can he then shape his fate, in this weary place?
What is this fate, they know, the ones who truly see,
Whose fortune's touch is harsh, unceasingly.

Today, man touches the moon, yet the earth's unrest remains,
Though through labor, flowers bloom in flames,
And by ill fate, in rain, the homes ignite,
This clash has raged through ages, in endless fight.
Though often true, that effort yields its prize,
But when this fate itself, denies,
The work is small, not fate, this is the truth,
Both together, built this world, in age and youth,
What is this fate, they know, the ones who truly see,
Whose fortune's touch is harsh, perpetually.
What is this fate? Who here has seen their own?
Man himself, his destiny has sown.