Mine ill luck the same and same, O Lord, the coldness on Your part: No useful aim has been served, by skill in poetic art.

Where am I and where are You; is the world a fact or naught? Does this world to me belong, or is a wonder by You wrought?

The precious moments of my life, one by one have been snatched: But still the conflict racks my brain, if heart and head are ever matched.

A hawk forgetful of its breed, upbrought and fed in midst of kites; knows not the wont and ways of hawks, and cannot soar to mighty heights.

For song no tongue is set apart, no claim to tongues is laid by me: What matters is a dainty song, no matter what its language be.

Faqr and Kingship are akin; though at odds may these appear: One wins the heart with single glance, the other rules with sword and spear.

Some have left the caravan train, and some on Ka‘bah turn their back; for leaders of the Faithful Band, winsome mode and manners lack.