Tum apne shikwe ki baatein na khod khod ke poocho

Do not probe so, unearthing all your grievances of old; Be careful of my heart, for there a fire lies buried deep in me.

My heart, this pain and sorrow is a prize, for ultimately There are no morning tears to shed, no midnight misery.

To judge a beggar by his rags is sheer impiety; The withered thorn itself lays claim to a garden's pedigree.

The greedy heart's desire grew more intense with intimacy; The foam upon the wine-cup's lip is thirst's own ecstasy.

How blessed the heart that's wrapped within a spell of mystery, When madness, grief, and sorrow are the price of destiny.

Whose garden party has been wrecked by what harsh tragedy, That every jasmine petal is like glass for all to see?

Imam of outer form and of the inner mystery, Ali, the Saint, God's Lion, is the Prophet's legatee.