يہ دير کہن کيا ہے ، انبار خس و خاشاک

The ancient fane in which we live has heaps of thorns at every turn; too hard to cross it safe and sound without the aid of sighs that burn.

The tale of quarry shot by Love is simple, brief and not too long: The victim feels the joy of prick and then the rest of saddle thong.

The sterling truth to Muslim taught, in feuds of different sects is lost; how can you catch this truth again, with bias if your mind be fraught?

One is the outward form of faith, the other its spirit deep and true: He, who quaffs its spirits deep, brings secrets hidden to his view.

O pilgrim wise, who tread the path, if passion strong for faith you lack, the bough of faith shall whither fast, obscure and dim become the path.

Courage and valour are the signs by which the state of Love is known: Not every zeal is pert and rude, nor daring by ev’ry person shown.

On the Day of Judgment too my frenzy will not let me rest: With Mighty God I shall contend or rend to fragments my own vest.