دل سوز سے خالي ہے ، نگہ پاک نہيں ہے

Of passion’s glow your heart is blank; your glances are not chaste and frank: To wonder at then there is naught that bold and dauntless you are not.

A longing strong for God’s display is also hid in self-same clay: O heedless man, let this be known, brains alone you do not own.

The eye whose light and luster rest on collyrium brought from West: Is full of art, conceit and show, it gets not wet at others’ woe.

How can the priest and monk assess the height of craze that I possess? Still sound the hems of robes they wear, which have no rifts and know no tear.

How long the stars shall hold their sway on fate of man, sprung from clay? Either bereft of life I drop, or the Wheel of Fate must stop.

Lightning I am and keep my eye on waste and hill that reach the sky: Heaps of straw and mounds of dust, too low they are, avoid I must.

That godly man gets world’s bequest, who risks his life in ceaseless quest: That man no Faith can claim at all, who lives not up to Prophet’s call.