To the Holy Prophet

O you who are helper of helpless people like us, free this nation from the fear of death.

You burnt down ancient idols and renewed the old universe.

In this world where men and genii are engaged in meditation and devotion, you are the morning prayer and the call to prayer.

La ilah is the essence of ardour and ecstasy, it sheds light in the dark night of doubts.

We did not make gods of cows and asses, nor did we bow our heads before soothsayers;

we did not prostrate ourselves before ancient gods, nor did we walk in adoration round the palaces of kings and nobles;

this is all the result of your benevolence, our thought has been nourished by your kindness.

Our remembrance of you is the source of delight and rapture, and keeps the nation jealous of its honour even in poverty.

You are the goal of every wayfarer, the ideal that everyone aspires to attain.

We are a defunct musical instrument whose chords do not respond to the plectrum any longer.

I have wandered through lands, Arab and non Arab, Bu Lahab is everywhere, Mustafa nowhere.

The so called enlightened Muslim has no lamp to illumine the darkness of his heart.

Even in his youth he is soft like silk, the desires in his heart are short lived.

He is a slave, son of a slave, son of a slave, who dare not think of freedom;

the school has drained him of love for religion; all I can say about him is that he existed at one time;

forgetful of himself and enamoured of the West, he begs bread of barley from the hands of the Franks.

This hungry man bartered away his soul for a piece of bread and caused us great grief thereby.

He picks up grain from the ground like domestic birds and is unaware of the blue expanse of space.

The fire of the Franks has melted him: this hell has totally transformed him.

The teacher, lacking intellectual equipment and insight, did not inform him of his real stature.

He is a believer and yet unaware of the secret of Death. His heart does not believe in the truth that None is supreme except Allah.

As his heart has died in his breast, He does not think of anything except food and sleep.

For one piece of bread, he bears the sting of yes and no, for a day’s meal he begs favours from a hundred persons.

He buys false gods from the Frank, though he is a believer, his mind is an idol temple.

Say: Get up at my order and quicken, revive in his heart the cry: Allah is He,

We are all under the spell of Western culture, and are martyrs at the altar of the Franks.

From that nation whose cup is now broken, produce a single man who is God intoxicated,

so that the Muslim should learn to see himself again and look upon himself as the cream of the whole world.

O rider, rein in your horse for a moment; I cannot easily find words to express my mind.

Should I give expression to my desire or not? Love is not restrained by etiquette;

Love says: O grieved one, open your lips; etiquette says: Open your eyes and keep your mouth shut.

The whole universe revolves round you. I entreat a look of mercy from you.

You are my dhikr and fikr, my knowledge and gnosis; you are my boat, river and storm.

Not even a lean, frail and weak deer could anybody tie to my saddle strap.

My shelter is the sanctuary of your street: I turn towards you with a hopeful heart.

No longer am I able to nourish song in the breast and open a hundred buds with a single breath.

My song has broken in my throat; the flame no longer comes out of my breast.

My words have lost their fervour and I have ceased to enjoy my morning recitation of the Quran.

How could songs remain confined within my breast— songs that could hardly be contained in the mind.

They need a limitless expanse the whole breadth of nine heavens.

Ah! the pain that afflicts my body and soul, a look from your eyes is my remedy.

These medicines no longer agree with this weak soul of mine: their bitter taste and smell are unbearable.

My condition cannot be improved by these medicines: at the very sight of them I cry like a child.

I deceive myself by sugar coating them, the physicians laugh at me in their sleeves.

I seek relief from you as did Busairi and pray that old days may come back again.

Your kindness to sinners is great: it is forgiving like a mother’s love.

I am battling against the worshippers of darkness, replenish my lamp with oil.

Your existence lends lustre to the world, do not deny my soul a reflection from it.

You know that value of the body is due to soul, and the value of the soul is due to the reflection of the Beloved

I have no hope from other than God, make of me either a sword or a key.

I am quick in understanding the significance of religion; the seed of action, however, has never sprouted out of my dust.

Sharpen my axe all the more, for I have a task greater than that of Farhad.

I am a believer and I do not deny myself; test me on the touchstone, you will not find me false metal.

Although the field of my life has remained barren, yet I possess a tiny thing called “heart”.

I keep it hidden from the eye of the people, for it bears the marks of your horse’s hoof.

For a slave who does not seek material means life without you is as good as death.

You blessed a Kurd with fluency in the Arabic tongue, call your slave into your presence—

a slave who bears like the tulip a mark on his heart, which his friends are unaware of,

a slave who weeps like a reed, his soul almost burnt through constant songs.

I am like a half burnt piece of wood in the desert, the caravan has passed on, and I am still burning.

In this vast world perhaps another caravan one day appear.

My soul, afflicted with separation, cries within me: O my lament! Ah me! Ah me!