To Elder of the Shrine

O Shaykh, who tend the Holy Shrine, Discard these monkish modes of thine: Grasp what morning songs denote, What aim or end I would promote.

May God preserve the youth you guide, And may they all by Faith abide! Restraint and order you must teach To shun conceit you ought to preach.

Those who blow on glass in West, Have taught the youth repose and rest: Let them imbibe to bear the shocks, And cut the stones and hew the rocks.

The foreign Yoke that ran for periods long, Has drained the blood of heart, so strong; Think of some cure, panacea or aught To bring to end their sight distraught.

In fits of frenzy strong and great Of mysteries, God I start to prate: Bestow on my distracted brain Some recompense for this pain.