رہا نہ حلقہ صوفي ميں سوز مشتاقي

To Lover’s glowing fire and flame the mystic order has no claim: They don’t discourse or talk of aught save wonders by their elders wrought.

Alas! The throne as well as the mat, alike are full of guile and craft: Both royal hall and Holy Shrine have lost their essence fine.

The scrolls of Sufis and mullah may put them to shame on Judgment Day before the Throne of Judge Supreme for being empty in extreme.

How can this world or next contain the man not bound to one domain? The East or West is not his home, not tied to Syrian Land or Rome.

Intoxication due to nightly wine, no doubt, by now, is one decline, but saki’s glance still pricks the heart, like a swift and piercing dart.

My bitter notes with patience hark, that I utter in this park: Bear it in mind that passion too oft can work like elixir true.

More dear and precious song replete with lightning’s dazzling flash and heat than coffers full of yellow gold that mighty kings and chiefs do hold.