If you are after melodies, then do not go to him;
For thunder’s rumble is all the music that his pen’s flute makes.
He plunged a surgeon’s knife into the live heart of the West:
His hands are covered with the blood he has wiped off Christ’s cross.
On the foundation of the Ka’aba he built his own idol-house.
His heart is a believer’s but his brain an infidel’s.
Go and burn yourself in the blazing fire of this Nimrod:
For Abraham’s flower-garden blossomed out of Azar’s fire.