Misaal-e-partav-e-mai, tawaf-e-jaam karte hain

Around the cup a sacred rite we claim, they do, This is our prayer, offered in its flame, they do.

O, Moses, this is not your gift alone to hold, For rocks and trees their speech with God acclaim, they do.

O, Candle, seek some other world, for here below, The tortured live a restless, burning shame, they do.

My friends, in this sad garden, silence is the best, For here the sweet-voiced singers they make tame, they do.

For those whose joy is found within the trade of wine, A lawful thing they brand with sinful blame, they do.

O, Preacher, how can you and we find common ground? For we make love's own ritual our aim, we do.

My God, what magic do these patched-robed sages hold? With just one glance the fiery youth they tame, they do.

I shrink from festive circles of the proud and bold, Who burn their homes to win themselves a name, they do.

O fields of Mazani, may you forever bloom! From this ship's deck, your distant shores we acclaim, we do.

When those who never pray decide to pray, Iqbal, They call me late and make me lead in shame, they do.