The tulip for getting just ray of the sun,
has such curvetings within a branch.
when the spring brings it out in the open,
it tells it to stay here for not more than a moment.
Both life and death furnish gear to each other,
I know not whether one is better than the other.
Life is a perpetual strife between the unpleasant and pleasant.
Today’s hue and freshness spring from yesterday’s blood.
Alack this machination of morn and eve, alack!
O God, the contriver of body and soul,
this frenzied one has to say a word to You.
I saw mischief in this old abode;
there are mischiefs there within and without.
Did this world come into existence with Your device,
or some other deity created it?
Its inside all peace but the outside all strife.
The hearts of sentient ones all shattered to pieces.
There is no trace of sincerity and purity!
Broken is the jar and the saqi no more!
Your eye is on the tulip-faced ones of the West;
man is bereft of freshness by whose sorcery?
By what does this universe acquire order?
O you infatuated by the charm of idols,
the godly man with luminous spirit,
was alone Your vicegerent in this world.
He is bound fast in the love of silver, kith and kin.
Shatter this idol-house if you can.
This Muslim whom does he worship? There’s not the least tumult in his soul.
His breast without feeling and spirit without any elamour.
He is an Israfil whose trumpet is dumb.
His heart is unstable and soul palsied;
his stuff is of no worth in this world.
Infirm in the battle of life,
bearing idols in his sleeves.
Like the infidels he regards death as mortal.
His fire is of little worth like dust.
Raise again a flame from his inert clay,
that very urge to search and search once more.
Grant him again that inner verve,
that very manifold zest and zeal.
Make the East firm by his self,
bring out a new morn from his cellar;
split the Red Sea with his staff,
let Caucasia Quake with his glory.