Although he does not wear a crown or diadem, the beggar in Your street is no less than a king.

The young are sleeping, while the old are dead of heart. There is nobody in whose lot are morning sighs.

Do not sit down on seekings road on this pretext that in our age there is no one who knows the path.

How unconcerned you are about your time! Learn of a time incalculable in terms of months and years.

In this old inn you look for peace! It seems that you do not know of the struggle for existence.

What can the angel-scribes record about our sins? For our lot in Your world was nothing but spectator-ship.

Come; let us catch hold of the skirt of Iqbal’s robe, for he is not one of those men who go about in patched-up dresses at saints’ shrines.