At dawn thus echoes a voice beyond sky: How you lost the essence of ken and pry.

The knife of thy hunt how you made blunt, the shining stars why you could ne’er hunts.

To thy heritage, goes the caliphate, can flame be tied to tuft and hays fate.

The stars, sun and moon thy slaves are not why, from thee shivers not, why not the whole sky.

That blood still runs in thy veins though, no heat of thoughts nor a smashing dash so.

A lucent eye though, but lacks seeing sense, the eye which lacks a holy guide’s glance.

No longer looks now thy crystal conscience; O prey of king’s an mullah, and Pir’s guidance.