Cries arise from my heart in spite of all restraint, Alas! That city we had in the times past.

That city, those palaces, streets are all in ruin, that glory, splendour, magnificence a mere tale now.

The cupola, circumambulated by the lofty sky, this is the grave of Sultan Mahmud.

He whose name a babe when weaned of mother’s milk, first pronounced in the cradle.

A consuming lightning his unsparing sword; lands and climes aquiver on his onslaught.

Under the sky his flag a sign of God, angels reciting the Qur’an on his grave.

My nimble fancy took me off from myself so that I did not remain in this world of late and soon.

That sun arose in my breast by the effulgence of which the hidden became manifest.

The sun on high prostrates before whose splendour; from his rays the past rises up.

I was rid of this world of eyes and ears so that I clearly saw the past morning like today.

The city of Ghazna, a paradise of colour and hue, with streams to aflow trilling out songs in the palaces and common streets.

Its palaces ranged row upon row, the sky grazing with its cupolas.

I daw the bard of Tus in The royal assembly and the army of Mahmud in the battlefield.

My spirit strolled in the world of secrets till a frenzied one woke me up.

That fervour, that intensity and poignancy of his, speaking like an audacious voluptuary.

He sowed the seed of a tear in that wilderness. He was having a colloquy with God.

Since I was not unaware of this secret, I was all afire with his voice’s heat.