If you are after melodies, then do not go to him;
For thunders rumble is all the music that his pens flute makes.
He plunged a surgeons knife into the live heart of the West:
His hands are covered with the blood he has wiped off Christs cross.
On the foundation of the Kaaba he built his own idol-house.
His heart is a believers but his brain an infidels.
Go and burn yourself in the blazing fire of this Nimrod:
For Abrahams flower-garden blossomed out of Azars fire.