The Gnostic and the common throng new life have gained through my song: I have conferred relish fine on them for Love’s fiery wine.

Some Ajami near the Holy Shrine did sadly sing this song and pine, ‘Alas! The robes by pilgrims worn to threads and pieces now are torn.’

The place of Husain, the Martyr great is fact, not bound to Space or Date, though the Syrians and the Kufis may often change their wont and way.

The gamblers who with you compete are deft of band and they can cheat: Your fumbling shaky hands, I fear, may bring about your ruin so drear.

No wonder if the Muslims gain their ancient glory once again; Sanjar’s splendour pomp and state, the piety and faqr of mystics great.

The robe of art and lore I wear is through Your special bounty there: You know my coarse and homely frame, to honour great I have no claim.