My mind on me bestowed a thinker’s gaze, from Love I learnt a toper’s wont and ways.

No wine, no flask, no goblet goes around, sweet looks to banquet lend its hue and sound.

Take not my rhymes for poet’s art; I know the secrets of wine-seller’s mart.

Behold the bud athirst for breath of Morn, it tells the story of my heart forlorn.

Know not, absence or presence if it be, I am the alien here, all others free.

My stay in West I may prolong a bit, my frenzy if this desert will admit.

The stage of mind by Iqbal soon was crost, but in the Vale of Love this sage was lost.