The craftsmen by their tact have built such works that Eden jealous make: The eyes endowed with sight can see; states hid that stir the heart and rake.

There is no Self nor usual change of morn and night at all is found: The Muslims have got rid entire of combats and shun such a round.

Ah! The infidel poor still pays homage to his idols old; though their broken state lie knows, yet oil him they retain their hold.

You are a corpse and your art the leader of your funeral rite: In pitch dark bed-room of the grave, of life the fellow catches sight.