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Mine ill luck the same and same, O Lord, the coldness on Your part: No useful aim has been served, By skill in poetic art.

Where am I and where are You, Is the world a fact or naught? Does this world to me belong, Or is a wonder by You wrought?

The precious moments of my life, One by one have been snatched: But still the conflict racks my brain, If heart and head are ever matched.

A hawk forgetful of its breed, Upbrought and fed in midst of kites, Knows not the wont and ways of hawks, And cannot soar to mighty heights.

For song no tongue is set apart, No claim to tongues is laid by me: What matters is a dainty song, No matter what its language be.

Faqr and Kingship are akin, Though at odds may these appear: One wins the heart with single glance, The other rules with sword and spear.

Some have left the caravan train, And some on Ka‘bah turn their back; For leaders of the Faithful Band, Winsome mode and manners lack.